


Bicameral Minds

by romanoff



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Omega Tony Stark, Protective Steve Rogers, Reference to Captivity (Afghanistan), Secret Identity, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-05-09 23:13:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14725439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: Steve Rogers is Captain America. His omega, Tony, doesn't need to know that. It's for the best. It keeps him safe.Tony Stark is Iron Man. His alpha, Steve, can't find out. It's for the best. It keeps him safe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this is the start of a story I'm not really sure if I'll continue just because... it's hard. But to give some context, in this universe Steve was defrosted in the 1990s by Howard. I haven't decided when he marries Tony (like if it's before or after Tony's parents die) but they get married because idk. Political reasons or like social expectations. Again, haven't really plotted it yet. 
> 
> They kinda just get along together for around twenty years. Tony gets captured, and gets free, but won't talk about the experience. Steve works as Captain America but doesn't tell Tony: he's basically living a secret life. So while they both love each other, it's... not a very good relationship imo. That will change! But still. Not great atm.

Tony is sleeping soundly beside him, blanket pulled up to his chest, rolled on his side, peaceful. His breath is a soft burr, his shoulders rising and falling. He’s only ever still when he sleeps; like this, Steve can trace a finger from the shell of his ear down across his neck, over his shoulder, down his arm. He stirs only briefly, twitching at the touch. And then he’s quiet once more.  
   
His sweet Tony. He sleeps facing away from Steve; he says, he doesn’t want Steve to be distracted by the glow, but then he’s faced away from Steve ever since they were married. He’s used to it now, the gap between them, the lack of – intimacy. Sometimes it still stings. Most of the time, he expects it.  
   
Still, in these early hours of the morning before he has to get up, Steve grows fond. Tony is a loyal thing. Still something of an enigma, after all these years, but then – you don’t need hidden depths. Not everyone needs to be deep, pensive, dangerous. Tony is sweet. He’s loyal. He’s been Steve’s companion these past twenty years. He’s – surface level, but that’s okay; he says what he thinks, he doesn’t hide his emotions. He likes to build, and he likes leather shoes, and he likes it when Steve brings him back gifts on business trips. Or at least, what he thinks are business trips.  
   
He doesn’t stray. He has Steve’s back, always. He’s introduced him to so many things, and Steve – had been so lonely, before Tony. Even now, as Tony grows older, and Steve stagnates, he’s still – he’s still –  
   
Sleepy. He rolls, rubbing his eye. “Steve?” He mumbles. “You here still?”  
   
“I’m here,” Steve says quietly. “Got to get up. I’ve got my trip.”  
   
“Mmm,” Tony sighs, letting his head hit the pillow. “Give them hell, or – or something,” he mutters, pulling the duvet over his head. “Just be yourself. Your – charming self. They’ll love you.”  
   
It makes Steve’s chest ache, the lies he tells. He does it to keep them safe, though, to keep Tony safe. That’s what he says to himself. “You know I will,” Steve says, kissing the top of Tony’s head, where his fluffy hair peeks out of the covers. “Don’t worry about breakfast. You sleep.”  
   
“There’s… there’s berries in the lower box in the fridge,” Tony mumbles, still ensconced. “For your oatmeal.”  
   
“I know. Don’t worry. I can handle it.”  
   
“You sure?” Tony yawns without conviction. “Feel bad.”  
   
“Don’t. I’m a grown man, I know how to make oatmeal.”  
   
“Mmm hmm,” Tony agrees, like he doesn’t really believe him. “Remember we have… dinner, on Friday.”  
   
“With Obie. Wouldn’t miss it.” It’s important for Tony that Steve spend time with him; he’s the only family he has, really. He’s always wanted Obie’s approval of Steve as much as he’s wanted Steve’s approval of Obie, even though they’re relationship has always been – strained. Still. It’s important for Tony, and sometimes we need to do things we hate for people we love. “ _Sleep,”_ Steve urges, now standing. He leans down, presses a kiss to Tony’s brow. “It’s only two days.”  
   
Tony says something, muffled, that sounds like a slurred _‘you’re the best’._ By the time Steve has finished showering, he’s back asleep, tucked up on his side of the bed like stretching out would be an invasion, a colonisation of Steve’s land. He looks soft, young, vulnerable, hair fluffy and skin smooth; Steve can’t resist one final kiss to his cheek, stroking his hair. He’s so earnest. So endearing. He believes in Steve so much.  
   
It’s an awful thing, living a lie.  
   
   
He drives past the coffee shop that Tony loves, tells himself that come the weekend, Steve will take him there, listen to him talk about his week in that chattered, excited way he has, buy him a whole box of the crème filled pastries he likes so well but says make him put on weight. He only drives so Tony won’t be suspicious; it would be strange if Steve was picked up by helicopter _every_ time he had a ‘business’ trip.  
   
Tony thinks he works in military recruitment. That he travels from place to place, country to country, doing vague – recruiting, things. It’s probably a testament to his trust, or maybe his general disinterest, that he doesn’t press it further. Tony isn’t stupid, but there are some things he doesn’t bother to understand, like what exactly are the specifics of Steve’s routine, well-paying job, and why it requires him to be out of the country so often. Like Steve said: Tony is surface level. He likes building, so he designs weapons. He… doesn’t often think about where those weapons go, and what’s done with them. But that’s not a bad thing. It’s not Tony’s job to know those things, or worry about them. No matter how much it troubles Steve, his business, the things he makes, he wouldn’t want it to trouble Tony. Not his sweet, kind, wife.  
   
So out of guilt, he resolves: pastries, and coffee. Definitely. He’ll bring him back a gift, too; he said he’d be in Japan, which isn’t far off the truth. Well, a little far off. North Korea. But still, he can stop over in Japan on the way back, get him something nice.  
   
He parks up outside the SHIELD headquarters, let’s an over-enthusiastic guard have his car moved to storage. “Captain,” the men stationed at the doors nod, respectful. Steve smiles, nods back, undoes his suit jacket with a hand. It’s time to change.  
   
Natasha is already waiting, still dressed in her civvies. “Took your time,” she says, maybe slightly irritated, lips pressed together.  
   
“Had a problem with some oatmeal,” Steve smiles. “Relax. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you after.”  
   
She glares, and relents. “C’mon,” she says, “you need to suit up, and Fury’s waiting.”  
   
“Any news?”  
   
“Nothing. They just want intel, Steve. It should be easy enough, so long as you try your best not to cause an international incident.” She pauses the let the retinal scan do its thing, steps into the elevator and waits for Steve to do the same. She side-eyes him, distracted. “How’s Tony?”  
   
“Good. You know, the usual. I have dinner with Obadiah on Friday, promised I wouldn’t miss it, so – the sooner the better.”  
   
“He ever get angry when you miss his dates?”  
   
“No,” Steve says, shortly, unable to ignore the guilt. “No, he’s always – very understanding.”  
   
He thinks Natasha asks that because she knows it upsets him, but he doesn’t know why.  
   
   
It’s raining in Tokyo.  
   
Natasha is annoyed. Generally, what Steve wants, Steve gets; if he tells their pilot to set them down at SHIELD headquarters in Japan, they do, and he gets the red carpet. He asks the woman who runs reception, quick, you seem like the kind of person who would know their way around, what’s the best gift for a wife? And she asked, what kind of wife?  
   
Steve considered buying him a watch, one of the Japanese brands, Casio or Seikio, sturdy, practical, expensive, beautiful. He drags Natasha around the upmarket boutiques while she groans and demands to be taken back to the hotel. He needs her omega eye, he needs something elegant, and tasteful, expensive without being gaudy.  
   
She recommends some [pearls](https://www.mikimoto.co.uk/pearl-category/necklaces/flower-lace-necklace.html). Tight enough to form a collar around Tony’s neck, delightfully traditional, costly without being _too_ costly. He buys her a necklace too, in thanks; she rolls her eyes, stuffs them in her pocket. Two hours later, they’re in a quinjet, and they’re on their way home.  
   
   
Steve makes it back by Thursday evening. Perfectly on schedule. He’d gotten clipped on the shoulder by a soldier’s gun, but if Tony asks, he’ll just say there was turbulence on the plane. It’s already healing; by Friday, it’ll just be a scar.  
   
He’s back in his civvies, a grey sweater over a button-down, jeans, and the nice winter overcoat Tony bought him for Christmas this year. The pearls packed into his briefcase, roses in hand. “Tony?” He calls, brushing snow from his hair. “I’m home!”  
   
He can smell pot-roast. Tony appears in the doorway to their kitchen, dressed in a robe, holding a glass of wine in one hand, a knife in the other. “Steve,” he smiles, “you’re back. And right on time, just like you promised.”  
   
“Sorry,” Steve says, “I know you hate it when – “  
   
Tony says nothing, just walks forward, silences him with a chaste kiss on the lips. Steve wants to deepen it; he wishes he could, that he could sweep Tony into his arms, dip him to the floor, suck lines into his throat. But Tony won’t. And he’s still holding the knife.  
   
“I bought you a gift,” Steve says, and Tony pulls away from a kiss he doesn’t want to end.  
   
“Oh?” Tony teases, looking over his shoulder. “Well come on in to the kitchen and show me then, Alpha.”  
   
 “You’re making a pot-roast,” Steve says, “you really shouldn’t have.”  
   
“Well, it was a slow day,” Tony says, lazily, sipping from his glass.  
   
“What if I’d been late? What if I hadn’t made it back in time? You would have made the whole thing…”  
   
Tony waves a hand, airily. “I just would have made another one for you. I know how much you love potroasts.”  
   
Tony thinks it’s because Steve’s family used to sit around the table and eat them, every Sunday, before they died tragically in a fire. He doesn’t know it’s because he grew up in the depression, and meat was a treat for special occasions. “Well, you don’t need to trouble yourself like that,” Steve admonishes, slightly. “Don’t do that, just for me.”  
   
“Okay,” Tony says easily. “Next time I’ll do something simple. You said you had something for me?”  
   
Steve puts his case on the island, unclips it carefully. “Here,” he says, “they were from a boutique in Tokyo. I thought they were just the kind of thing you’d wear.”  
   
“Oh, Steve,” Tony breathes, “they’re beautiful. They’re so – perfect.” He giggles, slightly, puts down his wine. “Put them on me. I want to see.”  
   
“You can wear them tomorrow,” Steve says in his ear, indulgently, “when Obie comes for dinner.”  
   
“You’ll be there?” Tony asks, turning, fingering the pearls at his throat. “You promise? You won’t – have a thing, or not show up, or leave half-way through?”  
   
“I promise,” Steve says, nodding. “I’ll be there. I know how important it is for you.”  
   
“And…” Tony continues, dropping his free hand to straighten Steve’s collar, avoiding his eyes. “You won’t – fight? Or say anything bad, or… argue with him, will you? Because you know he’s just looking out for me, that’s all.”  
   
“I won’t,” Steve promises. At least, he promises he’ll try. He doesn’t trust Stane as far as he can throw him, and he doesn’t like how he looks at Tony. He doesn’t like how long it took him to come round to paying the ransom when Tony was taken, a few years back. How he monopolises conversations, turns things round on their head, tries to undermine Steve – Steve’s _claim_ on Tony, at every turn, like somehow he’s lesser because he’s not rich, he’s not the head of some grand corporation. _If only he knew,_ Steve wants to sneer, wants to throw it in his face. _I’m Captain America, bitch._  
   
But him swearing it makes Tony happy. He smiles, perches on his toes and presses another light kiss to Steve’s lips. “Just for that, you get an _extra_ big serving,” Tony says. If he’s happy, Steve is happy. If Tony’s content, Steve’s content. That he’s safe, and well-looked after, and _happy_ , is all that matters.  
   
   
They fuck that night, for the first time in a few weeks. Tony, as usual, on his back, eyes shut, silent. Steve thrusting, grunting in the dark. It never lasts long. It never fulfils any passions. The only time Tony has energy to sex is during his heat, but that’s only twice a year. In the meantime, their copulations have always lacked a certain – intimacy.  
   
When Steve finishes, he knots, then slips out. “Did you come?” He whispers.  
   
“Mmm hmm,” Tony says sleepily, probably lying. It’s okay. Tony isn’t – pushed by sex. He doesn’t need it like Steve needs it, which is fine. That’s fine. It’s just that – well – Steve _does_ kinda like it. And sometimes, he wishes they had more than ten minute fucks in bed, under the covers, with the lights off.  
   
He knows Tony’s self-concious. He doesn’t even get naked anymore, he wears shirts to cover the arc reactor in his chest. That’s fine, too. Steve paid for a doctor, a psychiatrist, a cosmetic surgeon. The psych helped stop Tony’s shaking hands, but he couldn’t do much about the belief that the thing in Tony’s chest – whoever put it there – is ugly, hideous. The surgeon couldn’t really fix the scarring, either; they tried, with some skin grafts, but it just made it look worse, and so now Tony doesn’t take off his shirt at all.  
   
Still, he’s more touchy after sex. More liable to lie his head against Steve’s chest and sigh, happily. He pulls up the down-stuffed duvet so the light from his chest can be seen, rests his head on Steve’s shoulder. “I have to do some shopping tomorrow,” he sighs, trailing his finger around Steve’s chest.  
   
“Hmm? Oh. Do you want me to drive you, or – “  
   
“It’s okay, I can take Happy.”  
   
“You sure? I don’t mind. I just need to write up a report on the trip.”  
   
“It’s fine,” Tony says, earnestly. “I don’t want to keep you from your work.”  
   
“And what about _your_ work?” Steve asks. “You going to have something good for Obie?”  
   
“I always do,” Tony says, quieter this time, more pensive. “My job isn’t hard, Steve.”  
   
“Looks hard to me.”  
   
“You’re just saying that,” Tony mutters. He seems – off, now. Like something’s wrong. He rolls away, turns onto his side.  
   
“Hey,” Steve says, touching his arm, “you okay?” He had been enjoying the snuggles.  
   
“Fine. Just tired.”  
   
“No you’re not,” Steve presses, “what’s wrong? Did I say something?”  
   
“No. It’s fine.”  
   
“I – was it what I said about your job? It _is_ hard, I can’t understand any of those schematics – “  
   
“I don’t get paid for it, though,” Tony says quietly. “You call it a job, but it’s not, really. It’s like – a hobby. Or a… I don’t know. Obie asks me to look over the them, so I do.”  
   
Steve frowns. “Do you… want to get paid? Do I not – I can give you more money,” Steve says gently, “just like that, it’s no bother, I’ll have them put more in your account – “  
   
“That’s not what I meant. We have too much money, it’s fine – “  
   
“I’ll get Stane to pay you,” Steve says, “if that’s the problem – you’re right, he should be paying you. It’s my company, I mean – I’m the majority shareholder. I’ll tell him, if he wants to be CEO, you can’t keep doing this work as a favour, he needs to pay you. Tony? Does that sound alright, Tony?”  
   
Tony turns. He’s looking up at Steve – strangely, with a small, sad smile. “No,” he says, reaching up, kissing Steve’s brow. “But I appreciate that you’re willing to try.”  
   
Steve lightly touches the place Tony’s lips had brushed. He doesn’t understand the problem. “You’re sure?” He says. “You don’t want Obie to pay you?”  
   
“I don’t need more money, Steve. There’s only so much trust-fund a trust-fund bitch can handle.”  
   
“Tony!” It’s not he’s angry at Tony’s words, more that – he isn’t usually so explicit. “Something’s wrong. Are you feeling okay?” He goes to press the back of his hand to Tony’s brow, gets batted away lightly.  
   
“I’m fine.”  
   
“Is it – are you pain? Is it the reactor? I can call the doctor in the morning, I can call him tonight – “  
   
Tony’s eyes soften. “It’s fine,” he says, taking the hand he had slapped away, pressing a kiss to the knuckles. “I’m just tired. Maybe – maybe I’m going to have a half-heat. Maybe I'm catching a cold. Hell, maybe I’m pregnant,” Tony says, with the carelessness of someone who knows it’s not an option. That’s not it, that’s definitely not it. Steve doesn’t want to press it, but –  
   
“Are you – are you not feeling well again?” He asks, quietly, carefully. A few years ago, Tony had changed. Steve thinks it’s because of what happened when he was captured, not that he talks about it. He had been okay, for a while, other than the shaking hands and sometimes nightmares, but then – almost overnight, it had been like –  
   
He’d stopped leaving the apartment, and would wear sweaters even in the sun, like he was afraid of showing his skin. He’d gotten ill, too, physically, like he was tired all the time, vomiting in the mornings and not just because he was hungover. Steve had called doctors, they’d run tests, no one could find anything wrong with him at all.  
   
And then it had gone away, all at once. When Steve asked him, Tony said it was something with the metal in the reactor, that it was literally making him sick, but he spoke to a lab technician and they fixed it, put a new sealing on it or something. Steve doesn’t understand the technicalities. But Tony was better after that, back to himself.  
   
Steve fears it, though. He’s concious of it. He doesn’t ever want to go back there, repeat those months, when Tony was a ghost, living on borrowed time. He wants Tony to be happy.  
   
“No, honey, I’m not sick again. I’m not anything, okay? Here,” he shuffles down the bed, pulls the duvet over his shoulders. “I’m going to sleep. Goodnight.”  
   
Steve doesn’t want it to be goodnight, he wants to keep talking, but he doesn’t know how to press it. “…Goodnight,” he says forlornly, with no other choice but to lie back against the pillow.  
   
He tries to snake an arm around Tony’s waist; maybe they can cuddle some more? But Tony agitates, nudges him with his elbow, shakes him off. “Stop it, Alpha,” he mumbles, frowning with his voice.  
   
Steve gets the hint.


	2. Chapter 2

He can’t help but be proud when he sees what his wife has made.  
   
Tony’s a good cook. The salmon is cooked perfectly, topped with buttered vegetables and garlic, breadcrumbs. He’s so talented, and he’s so beautiful. Pearls on his neck, a turtle-neck sweater, hair perfectly coiffed. He doesn’t know how he does it. Okay, he’ll admit, he’s probably a little too obsessed with the way Tony’s ass looks in those pants, the way his eyes are when they’re lightly rimmed with kohl.  
   
(He could lose it all. He could lose this, his beautiful, loyal wife, his wonderful home, his stability, the person he loves most. He’s living a lie, he’s living a lie, he’s living a lie -- )  
   
“Steve?” Tony says, pulling off his apron. “Could you get that?”  
   
Steve blinks. “Huh?”  
   
“The door, honey. Obie’s downstairs.”  
   
Fucking A.  
   
Stane is a bear of a man, with hair everywhere except his head, where it should rightfully be. He favours button downs that he never really buttons up, because he probably read in a men’s magazine that it’s more alpha to show chest hair at every opportunity, and he’s never the first to break off a handshake. “Steven,” he says, letting the thirty second excruciation of shaking begin, “good to see you, boy. Look well. Barely aged a day, I see.”  
   
“Job keeps me young.”  
   
“Well,” Obie smiles, too large, too much teeth, “it would keep us all young, if all we did was travel around and talk – what exactly is it you talk, again?”  
   
“Recruitment,” Steve says, through gritted teeth.  
   
“That was it. _Recruitment.”_ He finally – finally – relinquishes Steve’s hand, holds up a bottle of wine. “This is for Tony,” he says, pointedly, because he would never bring a gift for Steve, “for all the good work he did on Medusa.”  
   
Steve takes it from his grip. “Well,” he says, “I’m sure we’ll enjoy this over dinner.”  
   
“I’m sure he will,” Stane agrees, lightly. “Tony?” He calls out, leaving Steve standing in his own hallway, “my boy, where are you hiding? Oh!” He hears Stane’s delighted cry, “You made the salmon! You really are a piece.”  
   
“Obie,” Tony says indulgently, kissing him on each cheek. “Just for you. You need it,” he adds, raising his eyebrows. “You’re not active enough as it is – “  
   
Stane laughs, pats his gut jovially. “I’m getting _old,_ Tony. I’m not young like you. Besides, you’ve always been slim, I’m an alpha. We don’t age so gracefully.”  
   
Steve doesn’t say, _I’m over 70 and I don’t have a gut,_ but he figures that’s technically not true, and he is still a super-soldier. “I don’t want to lose you too,” Tony says, fondly. “Sit. Oh, is that for me? This must have cost – “  
   
Stane waves a hand. “What’s cost when I have a golden goose, huh? And I see the husband’s been treating you well.”  
   
Tony flushes, presses his hands to his pearls. “Well, you know Steve,” he says, smiling at him, warm, in a way that makes Steve’s chest churr. “He’s always so generous.”  
   
Stane slaps his hand against the table. “As he should be!” He agrees, raucously. “With a thing like you. I only hope he’s treating you right.”  
   
“ _He’s_ right here,” Steve says, stiffly, smiling, positioning himself behind Tony with a hand on his hip. He knows it’s possessive. He doesn’t care. He reaches down, presses a kiss softly just behind his ear. “And he always treats Tony right.”  
   
“Be nice,” Tony whispers, turning. “Please.”  
   
So Steve smiles. “Business is good?” He asks, taking two beers and setting them on the table while Tony finishes doing – something, with the oven.  
   
“Ah, booming. As always. There’s no shortage of wars, Steve.”  
   
“If only.”  
   
Stane laughs. “ _Right,”_ he snorts. “Sure. If only.”  
   
_Asshole,_ Steve thinks, smiling like Stane’s said something incredibly witty. “I hear Tony’s been helping out?”  
   
“I always need his eye, the Stark touch. Honestly,” Stane sighs, calling over, “I really don’t know what I’d do without you, boy.”  
   
“Mmm,” Tony hums non-committedly, frowning at an arrangement of flowers. “I’m sure you’d manage, Obie.”  
   
“Well,” Stane says, “actually, I was meaning to ask – Steve, if you could spare him – “  
   
“No,” Tony interjects, across the room. “No, Obie. Don’t.”  
   
“ – I was thinking about setting him up at HQ. His own office, workshop, everything. And I know you’re a liberal man,” Stane adds, “I’ve told him time and time again that you wouldn’t mind, so long as dinner was still on the table. And – look, Steve,” Stane says, tipping his bottle in his direction, “work takes you away so often. Wouldn’t it be nice if you knew he was busy? That he had something to do rather than – arranging flowers?”  
   
“I like flowers,” Tony says, defensively.  
   
“I know you do, honey,” Steve says. “I just – do you want this? I have no problem with it. Hell, I’ve been saying Obie should be paying you for all the good work you do – “  
   
“I don’t want to,” Tony says, shortly. “I thought – _sweetheart,”_ he wheedles, shooting Steve look that screams _drop it._ “I thought I made it clear that I prefer being at home.”  
   
“I know that,” Steve says, slightly defensive. “But it might be good for you to get out, make some friends.”  
   
“I have friends,” Tony bites out, stubborn. “I have the club for friends.”  
   
“All I’m saying,” Stane says, holding up his hands, “is it would be good if I could see what you were working on, Tones. Your thought process, you know?”  
   
“No,” Tony says, shortly, firmly, _clearly._ Steve is annoyed, now, that Stane had even brought it up; it’s upset him. His lips are pinched, he’s disappointed. _He was looking forward to this,_ Steve thinks irately, _why did you have to ruin it for him?_  
   
“Well, if that’s what you want,” Steve says, standing, positioning himself at Tony’s back, clearly protective, “then that’s fine. No one is going to make you do anything you don’t want to, sweetheart.”  
   
Tony unwinds. “Thank you,” he says. “I’m sorry,” he tells Stane, apologetic, when he has no right to be. It’s just in his nature to please. “I don’t want to be taken away from my home. You know me, Obie. It’s too important. And what would Steve do?” Tony frets. “He can barely make oatmeal without – “  
   
“I can make oatmeal.”  
   
“Please, I _saw_ the mess you left last week. My place is here,” he turns to Stane. “I’m just an omega, Obie. Don’t make me do something I don’t want to do.”  
   
Stane softens. “You’re right,” he says. “You’re a good boy, Tony. A good wife. I wouldn’t take you away from where you belong.”  
   
“Thank you,” Tony says, happily. Steve can see he’s glad to have the awkward moment smoothed over. “Can I get you another drink? Dinner will be ready in just a little while.”  
   
“You do that,” Stane smiles. Pleasant, inoffensive, kind, like a benevolent uncle.    
   
   
“Why don’t you want to work with Obie?” Steve asks later, scraping leftover food into the trash. Tony likes to use it as compost for his rooftop garden. “You said last night you felt – underutilized,” Steve adds, delicately.  
   
“That’s not what I said,” Tony says, washing dishes. He likes to do it by hand. He says it calms him. “I said, that I felt the work Obie gives me is – it’s like a hobby. It’s not serious. I’m like a… spell checker. I just look over the schemes, Steve.”  
   
“So, maybe, you go work at HQ, you show him what you can do – “  
   
Tony snorts, like that’s a stupid suggestion, but Steve doesn’t understand. “What’s so funny?” He asks, mildly defensive.  
   
“He doesn’t want me there to _help_ him, Steve,” Tony explains.  
   
“Then for what?” A beat; “Hell, you’re not telling me he’s – that he wants – it’s some kind of sick – “  
   
“No! Jesus, he’s like – a father to me. Ew, no, why would your mind even go there?!”  
   
“Because – you know, he’s a little… familiar.”  
   
“Steve, I don’t even know where to – “ Tony sighs, shakes his incredulously. “He doesn’t want me for my brain. It’s like this – it looks good, you know? To have someone like me on the payroll. SI gets a lot of flack for being heartless, war profiteering, whatever, but – if you can throw some glitter on that, make a show of them hiring an omega as head of HR…”  
   
“Oh.” Steve feels stupid for not realising it before. He sort of knows what it’s like, to be used like an icon, when you’re capable of so much more. “I get it, then. I wouldn’t want that either.”  
   
“Yeah. I don’t blame him for trying, and – he probably wants to keep me close. Still.”  
   
“Why would he want to keep you close?”  
   
Tony seems to freeze. Then, he shrugs a shoulder. “You know Obie,” he says, head down, muttering. “Always wants to know what I’m working on.”  
   
Steve feels a rush of warmth, then. His wife is so good. How did he get so lucky? How did he, waking up fifty years out of time, get so blessed as to land a devoted, kind, beautiful thing? He steps forward, rests his chin on Tony’s shoulder, nuzzles slightly at his neck. “You smell stressed,” he mumbles.  
   
“Thank you,” Tony says, letting Steve wrap his arms around his waist, press a kiss to his cheek. “For being on good behaviour. I know he tries to be annoying, but that’s what alphas do, right?”  
   
Steve doesn’t agree or disagree, just nibbles slightly at the shell of Tony’s ear. “Why don’t you leave this?” He whispers to the back of his neck, “I’ll finish up in the morning. Let’s go to bed.”  
   
It’s as overt as he can make it. Tony puts his hands in the soapy water, continues washing. “I should really finish,” he says, apologetically.  
   
Steve gets the hint. He takes back his arms. “Well,” he says, trying to hide his disappointment. “No worries. I’ll – probably head to bed, then.”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony agrees, still washing up. “I’ve got work to do, anyway.”  
   
“Don’t work too hard,” Steve says lightly.  
   
“Hah,” Tony laughs, not turning around, “right. We’re still on for breakfast tomorrow, right? At my coffee shop?”  
   
“Sure,” Steve says indulgently, “of course, Tony.”  
   
“Night, honey.”  
   
Steve exhales. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”  
   
   
He’s half-awake when Tony slips in three hours later, smelling like dishsoap and wine, scenting slightly drunk. He hears him stumbling around the room, pulling off clothes, sloppily brushing his teeth. “Shit,” he hears him mutter, when he hits his hip on the door handle. _Tipsy,_ Steve thinks, drowsily. He drinks too much.  
   
He climbs into bed, settles down on his side. There is no part of him that touches Steve.  
   
   
The call comes through early. Usually, Tony would be up – busying himself with breakfast, washing, plans for the day. Today, though, they’re supposed to be eating breakfast at his favourite café; Steve had promised.  
   
“I’m sorry,” Steve says, apologetic, pleading. “Next week. I swear.”  
   
“It’s alright,” Tony smiles, that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I get it. Work is important.”  
   
“Not as important as you.”  
   
“That’s not true,” Tony says, casually. “Go. I’ll – do something else. It’s Happy’s day off…”  
   
“Call a cab,” Steve says, “go, do some shopping. Here, take my card – “  
   
“It’s fine. Maybe I’ll head down to the club, see what the others are up to.”  
   
That’s a good idea. That assuages Steve’s guilt, some. It’ll be good for Tony to see his friends. “You do that,” he says indulgently. “And tonight I’ll – “  
   
“Don’t bother. With a gift, I mean. I get it. You’re sorry.” He reaches up, kisses Steve’s cheek. “Don’t forget to shave,” he says, taking his coffee and moving to sit on the balcony, robe tied loosely around his waist, tablet in hand.  
   
   
“Pierce,” Steve says, shaking his hand, letting him clap him on the shoulder. “Must be serious, huh?”  
   
“More like an unknown quantity,” he says, gravely, but smiling all the same. “How’s Tony?”  
   
“Good. Always good. We were supposed to have breakfast, but – duty calls.”  
   
“I’m sure he understands,” Pierce says, sympathetically. “For what it’s worth – Lydia always struggled with my not being there. I didn’t blame her, but – you’ve got yourself a patient one. Hold onto him.”  
   
“Oh, I do,” Steve assures, scanning the room. Fury and Coulson in conversation, Natasha talking to a man with cropped blond hair and – is that a _bow?_  
   
“Steve,” she says, jerking her chin. “Sit. This is – “  
   
“Barton?” Steve guesses.  
   
“What gave it away?” He asks, smile skewed, lopsided, eyes crinkling. He’s someone who smiles too much; it makes Steve instantly want to trust him.  
   
“The arrows, maybe,” Steve says, shaking his hand. “They called us all in?”  
   
“Natasha knows,” Clint sighs, “but she’s not telling.”  
   
She presses a finger to her lips. “Don’t want to spoil the surprise.”  
   
“The surprise?” Pierce asks, putting his hands in his pockets. “I wouldn’t call it a surprise. That would suggest our Captain here has something to look forward to. Actually – Nick, Coulson, we should get started. Apparently Steve has a breakfast date.”  
   
“More like lunch, now.”  
   
Pierce smiles, ruefully, slides folders across the table. “Share these amongst yourselves,” he says, “briefing’s on the first page.”  
   
Steve opens it up. It’s Stane. His date of birth, his weight, his height, his job. “What the hell?” Steve asks, looking up.  
   
Pierce sighs, kneading the bridge of his nose. “Nick?” He prompts.  
   
“What do you know about the Iron Man, Captain?” He asks, tenting his fingers, leaning back in his chair.  
   
Steve shakes his head. “He’s – rogue. Non-threatening, I thought we agreed?”  
   
“Well, non-threatening enough that Coulson was on the case until about two days ago. No offence, Phil.”  
   
“None taken,” the man says, mildly. Coulson would be mild mannered even if you held him upside down over a shark tank. “I imagine it’s kind of… past my level, at this point.”  
   
“You think Stane has something to do with Iron Man?”  
   
“We do,” Pierce rejoins. “More than that. Turn to page six, please.”  
   
There’s pages rustling, and then a picture of – boxes. With _Stark Industries_ emblazoned on the side. “Gulmira?” Steve asks.  
   
“These were taken three years ago by our man on the ground. Stark Industries – “  
   
“My company.”  
   
“Yes, Steve,” Pierce says, with a look almost akin to pity. “Your company.”  
   
“I don’t understand. I don’t – “  
   
“There’s a mole inside Stark Industries,” Fury explains, significantly less gentle. “They’ve been double-dealing for years, or, as we like to call it, treason.”  
   
“Someone’s been – selling my weapons? To terrorists?”  
   
“It’s more than that,” Coulson chimes in. “We think – look, Cap, we think whoever our mole is was behind that – bad business, a few years back.”  
   
Steve swallows. “Tony. When they took him.”  
   
“Right. Maybe – they have a deal, they use the Ten Rings as a proxy and pocket the ransom themselves. Or maybe – they just thought they could make a quick buck selling him to some – “  
   
“Stop,” Steve says shortly, “no. We don’t talk about that option.”  
   
Coulson nods, quickly averting his eyes. He’s fastidiously beta. “Either way,” he continues, “it has to be someone on the inside. Someone who knew Tony’s schedule, someone with a vested interest in either – “  
   
“Everyone knows Tony’s schedule,” Steve insists, “it’s a straight line from our apartment to 5th Avenue to the club. We over-publicised the trip, that was on me, and I encouraged him to go -- ”  
   
“Still. Someone had a vested interest in making sure he was taken. And we think – “  
   
“The mole is… Iron Man?” Clint puts in. “Seriously? How does a mole – “  
   
“No. We think the mole is just a mole. We think _Stane_ is Iron Man,” Fury says. And – and he’s deadly serious. He means it. He isn’t joking, or smiling, or winking.  
   
Steve blinks. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”  
   
“Unfortunately not,” Pierce says, rubbing his brow, sighing. “And I mean – look, the man is doing good work. Just three days ago we had word of a sighting in Libya. Took out _all_ the illegal SI stock.”  
   
“Is no one going to state the obvious?” Clint flatlines, “Or shall I just get on with it?”  
   
“If you’re so eager,” Fury says, raising a brow.  
   
“Iron Man is trim. He looks _ripped._ He looks like the kind of guy who drinks protein shakes and spend twenty out of twenty-four hours at the gym. I’d fuck Iron Man,” Clint says bluntly. “Stane – no disrespect – but he’s pushing, what sixty-five? He’s a little – round about the waist. There’s no way he fits inside that suit.”  
   
“Thank you, for elucidating for us your preference in bed,” Pierce says dryly. “For what it’s worth, we don’t think he’s _in_ the suit. We’re certain that it’s remote controlled in some way.”  
   
“But that’s what makes it so dangerous,” Fury adds. “It’s a weapon of mass destruction that can be directed anywhere, at any time, with zero personal risk to the wearer. Can you imagine – “  
   
“What that would do for the military?” Steve finishes. “I just – I don’t buy it,” he says, lips twisting. “I’ve never seen Stane pass up on an opportunity to sell, and these things – this suit – it’s a killer. And while we’re at it – Tony loves him, and for that, I tolerate him, but to be honest, he’s… I just don’t see him putting his life on the line to help anyone but himself.”  
   
“Could be a grudge,” Clint suggests. “He’s being stolen from. That would be enough to make him go postal.”  
   
“But to make a _suit,”_ Steve presses. “To build a suit of armor and fly around the world – “  
   
“Remote controlled,” Fury reminds him, “he might not be in it.”  
   
“Still. I don’t see Stane making something like this and not trying to get profit. Besides, who _built_ the damn thing? It’s not like Stane’s an even half-way good engineer, he gets Tony to – “  
   
They’re all staring at him like he’s stupid, or maybe they’re pitying him. “Steve,” Natasha says gently.  
   
“What?”  
   
Pierce looks uncomfortable. “It’s – it’s your wife, Steve. It’s Tony.”  
   
Steve – skips a beat. And then he laughs. “No,” he says, “you’ve got that wrong.”  
   
“It makes sense,” Coulson puts in. “Maybe he and Stane are working together on this. Tony does the tech, Stane the heavy-lifting – “  
   
“No,” Steve says, simply, incredulously, “there’s no way. Don’t you think I’d have noticed if my wife – no! He doesn’t even want to work with Stane, it’s not – where’s your proof?!”  
   
“We have none,” Pierce says, gravely. “Which is why – Natasha. Explain.”  
   
“You’re going to give me a job at SI,” she says, like that’s a given. “Somewhere I’ll be in Stane’s way, where he’ll notice me. I’ll take it from there. You don’t need to worry about the rest of it.”  
   
“You’re going to infiltrate my company,” Steve says shortly. “You’re going to spy on Stane.”  
   
“I’ll be getting close to Tony, too,” she says apologetically. “You have my word I won’t – hurt him, or upset him. I just need to keep a track of his comings and goings – “  
   
“ _I_ can keep a track. He’s my wife, I’m telling you already there’s _no way_ this is him, it’s – absurd to even suggest – “  
   
“It is a little absurd,” Pierce agrees. “And we’re just trying to explore all avenues, Captain. 99.9% chance it isn’t him; I know he’s a sweet boy. And if he’s doing this – it’ll only be because Stane is using him, Steve. There won’t be punishment, so long as we can get this contained and regulated as soon as possible. You have my word.”  
   
His word. That, what, they won’t arrest his wife? Steve doesn’t buy any of it; hell, he doesn’t even believe that Stane would be capable of doing something so selfless, let alone –  
   
It’s not that Tony is selfish. But for as long as Steve has known him… he doesn’t take an _interest_ in the world. Trades wars and elections and nuclear disarmaments pass him by. Maybe Steve wouldn’t care either, if he couldn’t vote. But still, the point stands: why would Tony, of all people, help build a suit to – it’s ridiculous. And Steve not noticing? Tony isn’t even _capable_ of building something of that quality, his highest level of education is high-school.  
   
He knows Tony teaches himself these things. That is the one thing he’s always taken an interest in, although he’s never shared it with Steve. But it’s one thing to teach yourself engineering basics, to have an eye for design, it’s another thing entirely to – somehow design and construct a – a –  
   
But let’s think rationally. If, and only hypothetically _if_ Tony did build the suit, where and how? Well, he’s at home often enough. That’s plenty of time to read up on what he needs to read up on. Ridiculous as it sounds, Steve’s often wondered how he fills the day: maybe he does just… practice engineering. And Stane could give him a workshop. But how would Tony get there, he’s isn’t allowed to drive –  
   
Happy. If Tony is going anywhere without Steve knowing, Happy will have the answer. He drives Tony everywhere, he knows his every move better than Steve.  
   
“You won’t talk to him,” Pierce is saying, apologetically, “you won’t tell Tony what we’ve talked about here today. I’m sorry, Captain, but you’re going to have to keep it secret.”  
   
Secret. What’s one more secret, in the stream of lies that make up the foundation of Steve’s marriage? “Right,” he says, flatly. “You know I’d do anything for my job.”  
   
   
Steve had found out Tony was taken while sitting in his suite at the Burj Al Arab Jumeira in Dubai. The guard who told him had been panicky, apologetic. Steve had blamed himself.  
   
He’d made him go. Tony hadn’t wanted to; he’d wanted to stay by the pool, explore the city. He so rarely travels abroad, because Steve rarely has time off from work. Still, Steve had reasoned it was only three days, Tony had built the weapon and the brass deserved to see the true face of SI, if only to shut up Stane and his pompous bragging. Let them see the _real_ midas touch behind their military-industrial complex.  
   
The ransom video had come twenty-four hours after went missing. He was alive, that was a relief, but they’d put a gag in his mouth, he was bleeding, he was scared, shaking. The analysts had poured over the footage, the wound in his chest bleeding through bandages. They’d apologized, and said it was time for him to prepare, that the ransom couldn’t be paid. SI stock had tanked; no one wanted to invest in a company that was reviled, imagine, not even paying the ransom for a sweet, kind omega, the heir to the empire, who everyone knew was loyal and devoted housewife. Stane had panicked. The military, for two months, combed the desert where he had been taken.  
   
And while Steve Rogers took leave, desolate, desperate, Captain America didn’t rest.  
   
They found him, three months to the day, stumbling through the sand, leaving bloody footprints. He hadn’t been lucid, not really. He’d talked about falling from the sky. He had recognized Steve; he had buried himself against him, wrapped his arms around his neck, base, instinctual. Steve had held him, even as techs had slotted IVs into his arms, checked his heart rate, murmured to themselves about the shining blue light in his chest.  
   
But he was alive, and he smelt like home. It was grounding. They were never closer, than those first few weeks after Afghanistan.  
   
   
Steve is self-indulgent. He doesn’t go home right away. Instead, he drives around in circles, aimless. He considers visiting Tony at the club, but he doesn’t know if he’d be welcome, and besides, he doesn’t trust himself not to give anything away.  
   
A text comes through while Steve is parked by the docks. _Iron Man spotted on border, Canada/USA – Stane MIA. What does this mean??_  
  
Steve ignores Natasha. Irritated at himself for wasting so much time moping about by himself while his wife waits for him at home, he throws his cigarette on the wet ground, grinds it with his boot. It late when he walks through the door, but the apartment is warm, homely, smelling like the spices of his omega’s cooking.  
   
He has a bruise on his left cheekbone. “Tony,” Steve breathes, “what the hell. Did someone hit you? How – “  
   
“Easy,” Tony says, slicing onions, “I hit my head on door like an idiot.” He positions his cheek for Steve to give it a kiss, not stopping in his task. “How was your meeting, honey?”  
   
“My – meeting? It was…” Steve frowns, pinches Tony’s chin to get a closer look. “That’s a real bruiser. Are you sure – “  
   
“Knife in hand. Chopping onions. Not helping.”  
   
It worries Steve that Tony can be so clumsy. He thinks, Tony drinks too much, maybe. It gets him into accidents. Just last night, when he hit his hip on the door, or when he has too much wine in him and slices a finger when cooking. A few weeks ago, a bruised nose. A month before that, a sprained neck, diving into the pool with bad technique. At least, that’s what Tony says – for all Steve knows, he got tipsy and fell out of bed during a mid-day nap. Maybe he should say something. He doesn’t want to embarrass him, or put him on the spot, but he knows that Howard was a drinker, and Maria. Maybe – just a small conversation --  
   
“Sorry,” Steve says, releasing him. “The meeting was good,” he lies. God, this is bad. This hurts. What is he supposed to do, say nothing? Now that Tony’s… idol, is under investigation, Natasha’s going to be staking him out, it’s all too close to home.  
   
He scared, that he could lose all of this. That the life he’s built here could disappear in an instant. Tony, with his sweet smiles and kind heart. Their home together. All the Christmases, and birthdays, and events, and happy memories they’ve created.  
   
It could all be gone. Just like that. Because Tony will discover Steve has lied. He will know their life is a lie.  
   
“I’m making breakfast for dinner. I’m kinda exhausted tonight, you know?”  
   
“Oh,” Steve says distractedly, “we could have just ordered in…”  
   
“You’re a growing boy,” Tony smiles, tiredly, “you need to eat.”  
   
All the things that Steve has deprived Tony of. A husband who is honest, a husband who puts him first before everything, a husband who can – give him a child, who can understand him, indulge his creativity. “Thanks,” Steve says weakly, sitting at the island. “Say – Tony, this is going to sound weird but – what do you think of this Iron Man?”  
   
Tony frowns. “The Iron Man? The guy in the suit?”  
   
“Yeah. The one who took out those insurgents in Libya a few days ago.”  
   
Tony shrugs a shoulder, keeps slicing. “I don’t know,” he says, placidly, throwing onion into a wok of boiling oil, “I try not to think about any of that kind of stuff, Steve. You know me. Family first, then work, then… other things. I just want to be happy. I’ll leave that kind of business to the alphas.”  
   
Steve smiles. Tony is so sweet, he thinks. He’ll protect him. He’ll make sure no one hurts him, ever. No one will ever take away what they have here, him and Tony. Pierce and Fury are wrong, they can search all they like, they won’t find a thing. They don’t know Tony like Steve does; he’s loyal, and devoted. He could never hide anything from anyone. He couldn’t hurt a fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly it’s so hard for me not to just…. Explain everything. Like I’m aware how OC Tony must seem but UGH he’s acting this way for a reason and I jsut kf;aweoth 
> 
> Basically, we all know that Tony is Iron Man. I hope it comes across that he has some ulterior motives for acting the way he does. And that the shadowy, behind the scenes aspects are clear. If that makes sense.
> 
> if u have any questions:
> 
> tumblr: writingromanoff.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: referenced past child abuse. Nothing graphic, but still. There's also an underage situation, although in the end there's no sex involved.

**Three weeks later:**  
   
Steve had felt bad.  
   
Work has taken him away. What with the Iron Man, the weight of knowledge that Fury and Pierce are investigating his home turf, he hasn’t been home as much recently. Tony has accepted it, as he always does, that that doesn’t mean he isn’t hurt; Steve can tell when he’s lonely. He’ll never admit it, but it must take its toll when his life revolves around providing for Steve, and Steve isn’t there.  
   
He’s excited. He talks animatedly about so-and-so at the club, who is so _obviously_ pregnant, but isn’t married, and how they’ve changed the a la carte menu. He talks about how he thinks Happy has met someone, a woman who works in HR, and Steve says ‘good for him’ and ‘hmms’ and ‘ahs’ when Tony recollects the sullen shop assistants and bruised apples that have punctured his life for the past few weeks.  
   
One hand on the wheel, he turns his head and smiles at him. Pats his hand, squeezes it. “What?” Tony asks, interrupting himself. “What’s got you grinning?”  
   
“Nothing,” Steve says, turning to look back at the road. “I’m just – glad you’re happy, that’s all.”  
   
“Okay, weirdo,” Tony says, scathing, but sounding secretly pleased with himself, like the fact that Steve is glad he’s happy makes him want to smile.  
   
They park up. “Reservation for two, name ‘Rogers’, 8PM,” Steve says, slipping the waiter a tip. He had forgotten to reserve a table, but Tony doesn’t know that, and Steve thinks it would upset him if he did.  
   
“Of course,” the waiter says graciously. “They’ll just be clearing your table now. If you could wait one moment, please,”  
   
Tony smiles at him, warm, puts his arm though Steve’s. They don’t speak, but stand together in companionable silence, Tony humming slightly, rocking up on his toes like an excited child. “You want to do something after?” Steve asks him. “We can go for a walk. We get drinks.”  
   
“I’ll do whatever you want to do, honey,” Tony says pleasantly, easily acquiescing, kissing his cheek.  
   
“But what about what you want to do? It’s your night, sweetheart.”  
   
Tony seems to think. “We could – we could go for a walk,” he ventures, hesitantly. “It might be good to talk? If you want to?”  
   
Steve smiles, frowns. “Sure,” he says, putting his hand in his pocket, trying to find their waiter. “If that’s what you want, sweetie. Talk about what?”  
   
Tony’s smile is strained. “I just think – when we’re alone, it would be a good time for me to tell you some things – “  
   
“Oho!” Someone cries, coming in through the glass doors. “Oh my, what are the odds?”  
   
It’s Stane. Dressed in a suit, red silk shirt, obnoxiously unbuttoned, with Natasha hanging off his arm like an expensive designer bag. “Obie,” Tony says, smiling. Steve can tell he’s tense when he lets Stane kiss his cheek, pat his arm.  
   
“Steve,” Obie says, smugly, patting Natasha. “This is Natalie. She’s just been promoted to my personal assistant.”  
   
“Oh,” Tony says, butting in when Steve reaches down to kiss her hand. “I’ll bet you oversaw that appointment _personally.”_  
   
_What are you doing here,_ Steve tries to telegraph with his eyes. “It’s good to see you, _Natalie,”_ Steve says. “I knew you’d land on your feet.”  
   
Natasha just smiles, sweetly. “Obie’s very kind,” she says.  
   
“You know her?” Tony shoots.  
   
“We worked together,” Natasha interrupts, “I used work with Steve’s unit. The military industrial complex is very tight-knit,” she laughs, kindly. “Anyway, now I’m at SI, and, well, Obie told me I could be plus one.”  
   
Tony’s smile is – not very friendly. “Great,” he says, tightly, “it’s a double-date.”  
   
He isn’t happy. Steve doesn’t blame him. They haven’t been out together in so long, and now this. Tony likes Stane, usually would be glad for his company, but –  
   
But he’s staring at Natasha like he’s imagining her flayed and hung upside down over a lava pit. “That’ll be a table for four,” Stane says, flagging down the waiter. Steve wraps an arm around Tony’s waist, presses a kiss to the side of his hair as if to prove he only has eyes for him; Tony pulls away.  
   
What did he do? It’s not like Steve’s been staring at Natasha, or has made moves towards her. She’s here with Stane – why is Tony being so cold? “Hey,” Steve says, taking his hand before he can follow the rest to the table. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling okay?”  
   
He had been chatty in the car, excited. “Fine,” he says, shortly.  
   
Stane talks too much, he dominates the conversation, groping Natasha in a way that makes Steve want to vomit into his prawn cocktail. He doesn’t know how she puts up with it, giggles, smiles, lovingly sucks on the spoon he feeds her with. Tony, on the other hand, is sullen; he contributes, ‘hmms’ when invited to speak.  
   
Steve holds his hand, cups it, where it rests on their bench. He pulls away. What is it? It’s annoying, yes, that their date has turned into a double, but that’s beyond Steve’s control. And it’s not like him to act so – petulant, simply because something hasn’t gone his way.  
   
Natasha tries to draw him into conversation. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing a lot of you,” she says, switching from a seductress to unthreatening, kind, the way she is when speaking to other omegas. “What with being Obie’s secretary after all. He said I’ll be the – the – what was it, Obie?”  
   
“Liason, sweetie.”  
   
“I’m going to be the liason, between you and SI. So we really will be seeing a lot of each other!”  
   
“That might be nice,” Steve ventures, “I think Tony spends too much time at home alone, anyway.”  
   
“I’m not a dog,” Tony says, flatly. “I don’t need to be fed, walked, and socialised on a lead, Steve.”  
   
An awkward, tense silence. Then Natasha laughs. “Oh!” She says, breaking the tension. “Obie told me you were funny!”  
   
And then they all laugh, awkwardly, except Tony, whose face remains stone, glaring at Natasha like he wants to pits of hell themselves to swallow her whole.  
   
   
“What the hell was that about?” Steve asks later, in the car. “She was only trying to be friendly. She meant nothing by it, Tony.”  
   
“I’m sure,” Tony says, looking away, out his window, “I’m sure she’s _very_ friendly.”  
   
“What is that supposed to mean?”  
   
“Oh, you know exactly what I mean,” Tony mutters.  
   
But Steve doesn’t. He gets a call, later that night; solo mission, Crimea, four days estimate. He tells Tony the next morning. “Fine,” he says, and leaves without saying goodbye.  
   
 

He gets home later than he expected. It's the early hours of the morning. All he wants is to shower, slip into his warm bed next to his (hopefully) warm wife and sleep for sixteen hours. 

But Tony isn't in bed, where Steve expects him to be. The apartment smells vaguely of some kind of burnt food. He can already see the empty bottles on the kitchen island. And Tony is lying, sprawled out on the couch, wearing a lacy gown Obie got him Christmas, not like the snuggly soft one he's had since they were married with all their olds scents for comfort.  
   
“Steve,” he purrs, pulling it open. “You’re home.”  
   
Steve blinks. “Tony it’s – it’s three AM – “  
   
“And I’ve been – w-waiting for you,” Tony manages, staving off a yawn. “I know you were so busy with – with your work, I guess. I wanted to make it good for you when came home. A treat on me.”  
   
He’s laid the table with a vase filled with roses, set it with the fine china, wine. But the food’s been covered up, and now the wine is empty, the fine china untouched. “You shouldn’t have,” Steve says, around the lump in his throat.  
   
“I should have,” Tony says, shimmying out of the robe. He’s dressed in the pearls Steve got him, weeks ago, a baby blue negligée, lace, the last thing you’d ever expect him to wear. “We could go to bed,” he says, breathless, stepping closer, resting his hands on Steve’s chest and smiling. He’s wan. His eyes are red-rimmed – not with crying, nothing like that, just tiredness.  
   
“Sweetheart,” Steve says, taking his hands, “you’re exhausted,” he tells him, softly.  
   
“I’m not,” Tony insists. “Look, I did this for you. I know – okay, a bit late for dinner now, but – “  
   
“I told you, I didn’t know when I’d be home.”  
   
“So that means an omega can’t put on a nice dinner for their alpha?” Tony tries to laugh, but it’s flat, lifeless.  
   
“When was the last time you slept?”  
   
“Don’t mind me,” Tony says, vacantly, “I’m just happy you’re home, honey.”  
   
Steve slips away, and Tony doesn’t even register, swaying on his feet, still staring at the spot where he had been. “You drank all of this?” He asks, keeping disapproval out of his voice.  
   
“I thought you’d be home sooner,” Tony slurs.  
   
“Jesus,” Steve mutters, “don’t – you can’t drink like this. Please. I’m sorry, if I had known – “  
   
“Shh, shh,” Tony is saying, turning, shushing Steve with a finger on his lips. “No no no, don’t be mad. C’mon, let’s not fight. I’m not mad, are you mad?” He looks at Steve so beguilingly, so innocent, that he has to shake his head.  
   
“Of course not,” he says softly.  
   
“Good. Let’s go to bed, honey. I c-can,” Tony hiccups, “show you a real good time. You know I can.”  
   
“I’m tired, Tony.”  
   
“Oh, now you’re t-tired?” Tony says, with just a hint of bite. “Suddenly you’re tired? You’ve never been tired before.”  
   
Steve doesn’t grace that with an answer; Tony is being unfair. “We can sleep,” he says, “if you still want to make love tomorrow – “  
   
“Make love,” Tony sneers. “What would you know about making _love?”_  
   
“Jesus! Tony – “  
   
“I saw, you know. I’m not _stupid._ I don’t care what you do, I can take it, but at least have the decency not to wave it under my nose. It’s humiliating. We were both there – “  
   
“What – “ Steve shakes his head, “What the hell are you talking about?”  
   
Tony grips the pearls on his neck, snaps them, throws them on the floor. “ _Natalie,”_ he spits. “I saw. She had the exact same necklace. And you knew her. And, what, suddenly she’s an upper level secretary at the company _you_ own – “  
   
“No. God, no, no, no, you’ve got the wrong idea – “  
   
“Have I?” Tony snaps, except – he looks like he wants to cry. In all the years they’ve been married, Steve has seen Tony cry three times. “Do you – break it out on all of them? _Hey, sweetheart, I got you this._ I don’t _care,”_ Tony says fiercely, “I don’t care who you sleep with, I know I’m – I’m inadequate, or you’ve never – but do _not_ bring it home, do you understand?” He’s pointing his finger in Steve’s face. “I said, do you understand? Do you _understand me?!”_  
   
Steve holds up his hands. “Tony I – didn’t. I just didn’t. It’s not what you think, she – is a friend. From work.”  
   
“From work?” Tony barks. “From work?! And suddenly she’s at SI, what use do you have for a D-cup readhead – “  
   
“It’s complicated.”  
   
“Oh, it always is,” Tony snarls. He rights himself, picks up his robe, tightens it around his waist. “I’m _trying,”_ he says, changing tack, suddenly begging, eyes round and watery, “I’m trying all I can. I don’t know what you _want,_ I don’t know what you like. I don’t know how to be – what you want me to be. Is it because she’s a woman? I can’t change that. If you didn’t want male presenting you shouldn’t have married – “  
   
“No, Tony, stop it,” Steve says, taking his hands. “It’s not _you,_ I – love you, you know I love you. All of you.”  
   
“I’m hideous,” Tony says, flatly. “I’m the definition of sloppy seconds, and she’s – perfect, I get it.”  
   
“You’re not hideous,” Steve says, shaking his head, incredulous. He cups Tony’s cheek. “I think you’re beautiful. You’re – Jesus, Tony,” he huffs, “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to make you see – “  
   
“Not fucking a secretary would be a good start.”  
   
“Listen to me,” Steve says, intently. “She worked with me, in recruitment. She’s like the – “ how does Steve says this, as close to the truth without telling the truth? “ – the bombshell. They put her out to get the alphas signing up, because kids don’t think with their brains, alright? And when we were in Tokyo – a lover of hers bought her that necklace. And I thought it was so beautiful, I wanted to get one for you, too.”  
   
“So you saw it on her, and thought she was beautiful, and thought you wanted to see if you could get me to match up.”  
   
“Tony, if this about – I don’t know what else to say. The arc is nothing, I don’t even see it. I think it’s gorgeous, it’s genius, I only hate that someone hurt you to put it there, understand? I was in the military, scarring doesn’t mean anything to me – “  
   
“No. It’s not about the arc, you’ve never – wanted me. Ever.”  
   
Steve recoils. “I’ve always wanted you. You – have a lower drive than me, that’s fine – “  
   
“Lower – _drive?_ Are you serious? Are you fucking _kidding me,_ Steve?!” He pushes him away, face twisting, contorting. “You’re never here! What am I supposed to do – “  
   
“What?!” Steve is confused, Steve is – taken aback, slightly. Tony never shouts. He certainly never pushes. “Tony, you don’t – “ he almost says, _put out,_ but thinks better of it. “You don’t – you’ve never been – proactive – “  
   
“1991,” Tony snarls. “June 20th. Our wedding, do you remember?”  
   
“Jesus, of course I remember – “  
   
“How’d that night go, Steve?”  
   
“Tony you – you’d just turned 17, I wasn’t going to – “  
   
“So I don’t want to hear I don’t put out,” Tony snaps. “I put out. But it’s hard, okay? It’s hard when – you’re not here. I get lonely. And when you’re back… I don’t feel it. I don’t _feel_ you.”  
   
“You don’t feel me?” Steve asks, desolate. “What does that mean?”  
   
“It means – it means – it means every omega in that restaurant saw us and thought – and _knew_ – you were cheating on my with her. Do you understand how – how _humiliating_ – how – “  
   
“What?! Tony – no one pays any attention to you, or us, or whatever the hell we do. Why do you think – “  
   
“We both _sat there,”_ Tony snarls, working himself up into a frenzy, “wearing the same fucking bespoke Japanese pearl necklace. Everyone with a pair of eyes saw that – and more fool me for thinking I was special, that you had gone out your way – “  
   
“I assure you,” Steve says flatly, “you don’t realise how out of my way I went.”  
   
“I just – I feel like you’re not telling me things,” Tony pleads. “I know it’s your life, you don’t need to share it with me, and alphas – do their own things, it’s fine. But you’re gone for weeks, sometimes _months,_ and I have no way of knowing…” he swallows, looks away. “Alphas need it more,” he says, “I know that. And I know I’m inadequate. I just – don’t want you to throw it in my face. I don’t want you to be obvious, because then I can’t pretend it doesn’t happen.”  
   
Steve stares at him, at a loss. “You think – you think I’ve just been going around the world, sleeping with other people?”  
   
Tony looks defensive. “You’re alpha,” he says, like that’s an explanation.  
   
“Have you got any proof? Other than the fact my CEO’s new squeeze had the same necklace as you?”  
   
Tony pauses. He shakes his head. “I know you’re hiding something,” he says, thickly. “I’m not, stupid, Steve. I just – I _know.”_  
   
“That hurts, Tony.”  
   
“Yeah, well – it hurts me, too.”  
   
“You must have more,” Steve pushes, a mix of – irritated, tired, insulted. “Come on. What else? I travel a lot, that’s true. I’ve told you why Natalie had the same necklace as you. What else do you have? Anything? Anything at all?”  
   
“Stop it,” Tony mutters.  
   
“Stop what? Defending myself?”  
   
“You make me sound crazy,” Tony says, defeated, slumping to sit on the couch. “I don’t have any proof, you’re right. But – but you are gone. And I feel so –inadequate, I can’t imagine you _not_ having – not sleeping – not doing things, with other people.”  
   
“You’re not inadequate,” Steve tells him.  
   
“You’re – you,” Tony says flatly. “It’s like you’ve barely aged a day, and I just keep…” his hand ghosts his cheek, as if feeling out the start of wrinkles, of decay, the loss of youth. “I don’t know how to be good for you anymore,” Tony admits. “I feel like you don’t – like – like – “  
   
“Like?” Steve prompts, quietly.  
   
“Like even when you’re here, you’re not here,” Tony says. “You’re always someplace else. And I don’t know how to catch your attention, or make you stay, I – don’t have anyone but you,” he pleads. “You’re my only family, my only – hell, my only _friend._ If you – if you leave me – “  
   
“Hey,” Steve soothes, rushing forward, sitting himself on the couch, “hey, Tony, I’m not going anywhere.”  
   
Tony is shaking his head. “I know that,” he says, voice croaking. “I don’t mean really leave, physically. I mean – you’re drawing away, I can feel it. I’m not enough. Not – I don’t know, pretty enough? Clever enough? Kind enough? I bore you, maybe, I don’t know. But I’m gonna end up like mom, like a stranger in my own home, because you can go and live your life but I’m stuck here, I don’t _have_ anywhere or anyone else, I don’t have a job, or a – “  
   
Steve thinks, _I’m being unfair._  
   
Tony isn’t stupid. The opposite, in fact. His instincts tend to be keen, when he’s not ignoring them in the name of politeness. He can sense there’s something wrong. He can sense there’s something Steve is not telling him. Obviously, he can’t possibly guess the ridiculous truth, so his brain settles for something knowable, something his own father did, something he’s known all alphas to do. If Steve is hiding something, it must be an affair, because that’s the main thing alphas hide from their omegas.  
   
He was foolish, with the Natasha thing. He should never have bought her that necklace, even as a thank you. Why not just get a cheaper one? Then again, it’s not like he _knew_ she’d be covertly invading his life a few short weeks later. It’s not like he could have stopped either of them from wearing the stupid pearls that evening, although _Natasha should have known better._  
   
If she did that to get a rise out of Tony – to upset him, to place doubts in his head…  
   
“You’re right,” Steve interrupts, “I’m sorry. You’re right.”  
   
“What?”  
   
“I’ve been distant. You’re right. You’re not crazy. I know I’ve been distant, and – it’s not because of you.”  
   
Tony is quiet. Steve sighs, sits himself next to him on the couch. Slowly, almost distrusting, Tony brings up his knees, rests his head against Steve’s chest, like they’re watching a movie together.  
   
“It’s part of who I am,” Steve says, half-telling the truth, hating the lie. “I was always taught, you don’t bother your omega with work, you know? Keep them happy, don’t – stress them out about things they can’t change.”  
   
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Tony says. He’s noticeably calmer, Steve can scent it; why? Is it because for the first time, Steve is at least pretending to speak to him like an equal? Like Tony is a partner, and not a companion? “I’m stronger than you think, Steve. I can handle it, whatever’s bothering you.”  
   
“I know you can,” Steve says, pressing a kiss to his hair. “It’s not about what you can handle, it’s about me and my – stupid problems. _I_ don’t like the idea of upsetting you, understand? It’s not because I don’t think you can’t handle it, it’s because I’m – a coward?”  
   
“What’s so bad about your work that you can’t tell me? Is it your boss? I don’t even know why you bother,” Tony grumbles, “Dad gave you SI on a silver platter.”  
   
“I like the work. Keeps me busy, keeps me honest.”  
   
“Keep you away from me.”  
   
“I love my job,” Steve says guiltily. “But I know what you mean. Maybe – you’re older now. It’s not fair that I leave you – “  
   
“It’s not the leaving I mind,” Tony says honestly. “I don’t care if you leave. I care when you come home, and there’s clearly something else on your mind.”  
   
There’s a weird, crescent shaped bruise behind Tony’s ear. Steve gets distracted, traces it. “What is this?” He asks.  
   
“Earring,” Tony says, automatically. “Slept on it, pressed into my neck. Ouch.”  
   
That makes sense. It almost looks like that kind of mark you’d get – who knows, driving a race car and having your helmet dig in sharp with the pressure of turning. But that would be ridiculous, because Tony can’t drive. “Huh. Who knew jewellery could be so dangerous.”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony says, sheepishly. “I almost started WWIII because of a matching necklace.”  
   
Steve laughs, because it’s meant as a joke, but he doesn’t find it funny. It makes him sad. How long had Tony spent, obsessing, hating, all because of one necklace, while Steve was oblivious.  
   
   
**1991**  
  
Tony wants to throw up.  
   
He’d kneeled through the ceremony, kissed the alpha chastely on his lips, been marched up and down the aisle. He’d sat at the alpha’s side, a stranger who tried to make awkward conversation, stilted and forced. He’d tried to smile, and be involved, and look like a happy, blushing bride, but Dad keeps glaring at him, as if in warning. _Don’t fuck this up. Not again, not after what happened last time._  
   
Tony was engaged before. It didn’t end well. And no one wanted him after that. So when Dad told him – two weeks ago, hey, by the way, I’ve found someone, you’re getting married, it had been – it was –  
   
There had been a lunch. The alpha – _Steve,_ Steve, you have to call him Steve – had barely looked at him. He hadn’t smiled, not once. He was stick in the mud, a military man, a hard-ass. Dad loved him, said he was a ‘good man’, but that doesn’t bode well. Tony had begged. _Please, Dad. Please, don’t make me._  
   
It hadn’t been worth the beating. Tony’s thighs are still sore, striped and bruised. He thinks, what if Steve asks why he got them? Will he lie? What if Steve thinks he deserves it? What if Steve does the same to him, and worse? Steve looks a lot stronger than Dad. Steve could probably kill him with a slap, if he wanted.  
   
“ – ony,” he hears. “Tony.” The alpha is whispering to him, nudging him. “They, uh. They want us to stand.”  
   
Tony blinks. “Oh,” he breathes, throat fuzzy, legs unsteady. “Already?” He asks, trying to sound happy, thrilled, impatient for what comes next. The alpha frowns at him, like he’s said something wrong. Tony’s heart drops out of his chest. Did he come across too forward? Maybe the alpha likes him more demure. He shouldn’t have said anything. He should have just kept his mouth shut, stupid him, stupid stupid him.  
   
Tony thinks about the car they drove here in. He pictures screws and gears and levies, fitting into place, perfect. Engines purring, wheels rolling. A machine that works in perfect harmony, the soft hum of the motor. Dad is saying something, toasting something, presenting them. People are clapping. In the car, it had been warm, and the seats were made of leather. Tony could have stayed in that car forever. He could have lived there, safe in the back seat.  
   
Now, he’s walking. The alpha’s arm is folded though his, leading. Out the door, with all the guests applauding them, like they’ve done something special. Up red carpeted stairs. Down a quiet hallway. The sound of footsteps, leather shoes on soft rug. Breathing.  
   
“206,” the alpha says. “Honeymoon suite.”  
   
Someone has brought up their bags, laid out the thing that Tony is supposed to wear. He doesn’t know where to put himself, but the silence is just stretching on and on. “I’ll,” he blurts, “I’ll just – get myself ready.”  
   
“Yeah,” the alpha agrees, “you do that. You, uh – don’t need to bother with those,” he says, jerking his head at the lingerie. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”  
   
Tony would have wanted the protection. He would have wanted some part of him concealed, even if it was flimsy and covered in lace, but his alpha clearly doesn’t want him to. “Yes Sir,” he says quietly.  
   
The alpha doesn’t respond. Tony thinks, what does he want? He thought this might be easier, that the alpha might be more clear, dominant, but he’s off pouring himself a drink. Tony’s fingers tremble. He starts working on the buttons of his shirt.  
   
“Hey,” the alpha, his alpha, says. “You want this?”  
   
A drink. Gin, Tony thinks? “I’m not allowed,” he croaks. “Still a minor.”  
   
The alpha stares at him.  
   
“I’m not twenty-one,” Tony explains, because the alpha doesn’t seem to understand, weirdly. “If I look hungover tomorrow, someone could report you. I’m just – saying, just in case. I don’t mind. I’ll drink it if you want me to drink it.”  
   
“Yeah,” the alpha says, hurriedly, “I know, I know, I just thought – it might make it easier. For you, I mean. Less…”  
   
He doesn’t finish what he wants to say. Tony thinks, maybe the alpha wants him drunk. He wants him to not fight, or not feel the pain, or whatever. Tony doesn’t want to, either, so he takes the glass. It’s disgusting, it makes him want to gag, but – but it loosens something, almost immediately.  
   
The alpha turns away. Tony finishes the drink. He puts the empty glass on a wooden cabinet. He undoes his shirt, folds it neatly, because he wants his alpha to see he’s good at those kinds of things. Same with the pants, the belt, his vest, his socks, his underwear.  
   
It’s cold. His skin goose-pebbles. The alpha turns. Tony isn’t self-concious, not exactly, he just doesn’t know where to put his hands, so he folds them loosely behind his back, dips his head, waits. When his alpha doesn’t respond, he looks up, uncertain.  
   
He’s frowning.  
   
Tony wants the floor to swallow him up whole. What could it be? Too short? Too tall? Too skinny? It’s such a hard line to straddle. His mom made sure he was on a diet these past few weeks, to get ready, but his dad had said now he was too skinny and looked like a homeless person. “I folded my clothes,” Tony blurts, like an _idiot._ “I can do yours, too.”  
   
“Did you get hurt?” The alpha asks. “You’ve got – “  
   
He gestures at his own body, along his left side. Tony blanches. “Oh,” he says, “I – I was – I.”  
   
He can’t say he fell down the stairs, because he has wheals on the backs of his legs. He doesn’t want to tell the alpha the truth though, that he got it bad because he was rude (or maybe just not very enthusiastic) at their lunch last week, because then that might set a tone, and he wants to avoid a repeat incident as much as possible, and then when the alpha talks to his parents tomorrow to tell them how he did they’ll explain all the ways Tony is inadequate and the alpha will think that, too. Worse, he might be angry if Tony tries to lie.  
   
Tony thinks, this alpha is friends with my dad. My dad thinks he’s a good man. Don’t be stupid. Tell him what he wants to hear. “I misbehaved,” he says, clearly, calmly as he can. “It doesn’t happen often.”  
   
“I… don’t understand.”  
   
Tony clears his throat. Is this man going to make him spell it out? “I was badly behaved. Dad used the belt.”  
   
The alpha looks angry. God, has Tony made him angry? “What did you do?” He asks.  
   
“I – “ is it worth lying, if the truth gets back. “I’m very sorry,” Tony says by rote, the words exhausting. “I think I was rude to you, last week, at lunch. Dad said I was, I…”  
   
He doesn’t add, _I tried my hardest,_ or, _you weren’t very forthcoming either,_ because he doesn’t think that will win him any favour. “You weren’t rude,” the alpha says, shortly. “You were very charming.”  
   
“Oh,” is all Tony can think to say. He wants the ground to swallow him up. “Can I – should I get on the bed now?”  
   
The alpha is turning, walking away. Wait,” Tony rasps, “where are you going?” He thinks, what if he’s going to take out his belt? Tony could have been better, he thinks. He was rude, probably, sitting next to him the whole time and barely making small talk, and not kissing him properly during the ceremony. That probably embarrassed him. Tony is always embarrassing people, it’s because he’s so stupid.  
   
It’s better to get it over with, Tony knows. Dad is kind, after. He’s not so harsh. It’s like happy families. Maybe it’ll be like that with this new alpha: Tony fucks up, gets beat, but then it’s alright again. Tony could live with that.  
   
The alpha is – holding out a robe. He’s averting his eyes. “Put this on,” he says. It’s soft, warm. Tony tightens it around his waist. “Sit,” the alpha says.  
   
Tony sits. The alpha pours him another glass of wine. Tony takes it, grateful. “You’re shaking,” the alpha says, quietly.  
   
“I’m really nervous,” Tony says, truthfully. “I’ve never done this before.”  
   
The alpha – smiles, actually. “Yeah,” he says, “I have two doctor’s notes and a hand-written plea from your dad telling me the exact same thing.”  
   
Tony blinks. _Oh._ “I meant – being with an alpha, alone, and – drinking. Not necessarily doing that. But doing that, too. I never had, no matter what you’ve heard. I promise I haven’t. It was just a rumor, I didn’t want to do anything, but when I said no he told everyone – “  
   
“Sorry. I feel like we got off on the wrong foot. You don’t need to be nervous, Tony. I’m not going to hurt you.”  
   
That could mean anything. Dad said, ‘I’m not going to hurt you’ when he caned Tony’s palm with the ruler. “Okay,” Tony says, not believing him. He feels embarrassed by his outburst. He thinks he might be drunk.  
   
The alpha lifts his palm. Tony flinches, can’t help it. The alpha drops his palm. “Sorry,” he says, awkwardly. “I don’t – really know what I’m doing either, if that helps.”  
   
Tony doesn’t know what to say. He thinks about what Mom told him. _Be assertive,_ he thinks.  
   
He meets his alpha’s eyes. He lowers his hand. He gently, so, so gently, squeezes him, runs his thumb across his –  
   
“No,” the alpha says heavily, taking Tony’s wrist, putting it back. “I don’t want that.”  
   
Shit. “I’m sorry,” Tony whispers. “I just thought – they told me – “  
   
The alpha lets go of his wrist. He takes back the wine. Tony thinks he’s really done it now, acted like a slut, like some kind – some kind of loose bitch. He’s really going to get it. What if the alpha knows the rumours? _Deny it,_ Dad had warned him, _if he asks you, you just say it never happened, he forced you, understand?_  
   
Tony doesn’t know what to do. The alpha doesn’t want to him make the first move, but he won’t make the first move either. He’s given him a robe; maybe the bruises are ugly? Maybe he’s ugly. Tony doesn’t know. He knows that alphas in the mall sometimes look at him and leer, whistle, and so Jarvis stopped taking him on trips a few years ago. He doesn’t think he’s ugly. No one’s ever called him pretty except – except his old fiancé, but the less said about him the better.  
   
Tony gathers courage. He gets to his feet and tracks his alpha to the small kitchenette. “I’m sorry,” he says again, keeping his shoulders firm, his feet flat. “I just want to be what you like. This is new to me, I – I can do whatever you want. I hope you aren’t upset with me,” he says formally, realising his words are slurring slightly, “I – I hope – “  
   
“Would you like some?” The alpha asks, quietly.  
   
Tony blinks. Is that a euphemism? “What?”  
   
“I made some cocoa. Would you like some?”  
   
Tony… doesn’t know what to say. “Cocoa?” He asks, weakly. He hasn’t had hot cocoa in years, not since his mom put him on the diet to get rid of puppy fat when he was nine.  
   
“Mmm. My mom used to make it for me, when I was sad.” He dips his finger into the hot drink, sucks on it thoughtfully. “It wasn’t this sugary, though,” he concedes. “It was more like… real chocolate, you know? A treat, though.”  
   
“My mom… my mom doesn’t let me drink it,” Tony says, carefully. “Because it makes you fat.”  
   
“Am I fat?” The alpha asks.  
   
“No!”  
   
“Well, I drink cocoa and I’m not fat, therefore, it doesn’t. Would you like some?” He asks again.  
   
A beat; Tony nods. “Yes please,” he says, furtively.  
   
“Good.” The alpha goes to the fridge. “Cream?”  
   
“Mom says – “  
   
“Say Tony, do you live with your mom, or do you live with me?”  
   
“… with you, Sir.”  
   
“Don’t call me Sir,” the alpha says, simply. “Do you want cream?”  
   
Tony nods again, stands awkwardly in his robe, and lets his military-dress wearing alpha shake a can of whipped cream and spray it on his hot cocoa. He turns, and holds it out; for the first time, Tony really looks at his face. His eyes are blue, and kind. He looks kinda scared, nervous, just like Tony.  
   
For some reason, in Tony’s mind, the alpha had been a lot older. Even though he’s seen him, has even looked him in the eyes many times before, he’d pictured him – mature. Stern. Now, he just looks young, and earnest, and maybe a little scared. “Can I ask how old you are, Sir?” Tony says politely.  
   
“You don’t know? Your parents didn’t tell you?”  
   
Tony shakes his head.  
   
“Twenty-five.”  
   
“Oh. You’re kinda young.”  
   
“I am,” the alpha says, and then smiles. “I hope that’s agreeable.”  
   
“Everything is agreeable to me, Sir. I’m here for you.”  
   
The alpha looks like he wants to say something, then stops. “Please,” he says, “call me Steve.”  
   
“Steve,” Tony says, firmly. He wonders if there’s a trick coming. He likes that his alpha is young, and lets him drink cocoa, but still. You never know.  
   
“I’ve bought us an apartment,” the alpha ventures. “In New York. I don’t know if you’re parents told you but – I travel a lot, for work, so I won’t be around a lot.”  
   
That suits Tony just fine, actually. Even if he does beat him, maybe he won’t be around for most of it. “Oh,” Tony says, “okay.” He sips his hot chocolate, hums. “This – this is good,” he says. “Thank you, Sir.”  
   
“Steve.”  
   
“Steve,” he corrects. “Thank you Steve. Alpha.”  
   
“You seem tired, Tony.”  
   
Tony nods. The cocoa has made drowsy. “I guess I am a little sleepy,” he says, yawning.  
   
“Why don’t you go to bed, kid.”  
   
“To b-bed?”  
   
“You seem tired. I think you should sleep tonight,” his alpha – Steve – says pointedly.  
   
“In the bed?”  
   
“Sure.”  
   
“And you – you’ll – “  
   
“I’m not tired,” Steve says. “I’m going to stay up, do some – work. Do you want some more cocoa?”  
   
“I’m okay.”  
   
“Cool.” The alpha says the word like it’s foreign to him. “I’ll see you in the morning.”  
   
“In the morning,” Tony grasps. “In the morning, right? That’s when we’ll – you know. When we’ll do it.”  
   
The alpha looks – sad? “Yeah,” he says, “maybe. We’ll see how I feel.”  
   
“Well – good night, Sir.”  
   
“Steve.”  
   
“Steve. Good night, Steve.”  
   
“’Night, kid. Say – maybe tomorrow, we’ll blow off that breakfast, huh?”  
   
Tony blinks. “The breakfast my parents organised?”  
   
“Sure. Maybe we can – do something fun. What do you like, Tony?”  
   
“I don’t know,” Tony says, uncertain, “what do you like?”  
   
Steve sighs, rubs his soft blond hair, ruffles it so it sticks up, frowning slightly. “I like ice cream,” he says, “do you?”  
   
“I can’t have… sweet treats two nights in a row,” Tony says slowly, grinning despite himself. “But, my parents don’t own me anymore.”  
   
“Ice cream,” Steve says, sounding pleased. “Great. Well, it was nice to meet you, kid.”  
   
“You too, Sir – Steve.”  
   
“Just Steve. Drink all that cocoa, now. Wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, Iron Man and Captain America meet.
> 
> Your thoughts your thoughts your thoughts. Are so important. I really really want to know how you feel their dynamic is shaping up, and just your general BELIEFS about both characters. Like, do their motivations shine through? Does it even seem like they love each other?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> references to implied child abuse/mistreatment

**_1991_**  
  
 _Tony, you stupid little slit, you ignorant hole. Look at what you’ve done. You stupid, pathetic little bitch, what am I going to do with you? What do I do with you now?_  
   
His alpha doesn’t have many things he takes pride in. Tony has learnt his alpha values experiences over _things,_ which is fine. It’s nice, even. He values _moments,_ he says, whatever that means. Steve says, things break, and fade away, or get stolen. But no one can take your memories, not really. No one can take away something once it’s happened.  
   
There are a few exceptions. Steve’s family died in a fire; he doesn’t have much to remember them by. Only some medals, which he says were his fathers, and Tony doesn’t know enough about to decipher which war or for what. An old sketchbook Tony has never opened. A series of old maps, well-worn and marked with ink, arrows and movements and plans.  
   
They’re old, Tony knows, because when they moved into the new apartment he’d seen them. A lot of the country’s borders don’t exist anymore, and they’re named different things. Tony isn’t clever, but he knows the USSR is bigger than that, and the Berlin wall only came down a few years ago but this map doesn’t mention East and West Germany. Steve had seen him looking. “Curious?” He’d asked.  
   
“I’m not good at history,” Tony had said, “but I know basic geography. These maps are old.”  
   
“Have you ever studied history, Tony?”  
   
Tony had shook his head. He’s done the important stuff, sure. Columbus, independence, civil war, WWII etc. He doesn’t know much about stuff outside the US. They don’t teach omegas that in school. “Not really.”  
   
“Well, these are from the war.” Steve unrolls them gently, reverently.  
   
“The war?”  
   
“The – Second World War,” Steve seems to correct himself. “They were my – father’s? Yeah. They were my father’s.”  
   
“You should put them on the wall,” Tony suggested. “I can get them framed, if you like. We can make the apartment – more like home. For you.”  
   
“That’s a nice idea, Tony,” Steve had said warmly. Tony had flushed with pride, for having suggested a good thing.  
   
At night, Steve would test him. He goes over dates. The year the USSR was formed. The First World War. The Cold War. It’s important, he says. Tony should know these things. His brain is like a sponge. He keeps it to himself, but in the long, free hours while Steve is away, he _learns._ He had been allowed to read back at home, but only pre-approved books. Steve buys him a set of encyclopaedia, and Tony devours them, letter by letter, page by page, chapter by chapter.  
   
He doesn’t know what made him do it. What made him decide he was going to study the maps, learn them, so when Steve tested him that night he could make him happy, like when he suggested Steve frame the maps in the first place. Taking them down was forgivable; what was heinous was that he took them out of their careful frames, laid them out on the table like he’s seen Steve do, like he was allowed to do these things, touch what isn’t his and understand, act like he was alpha. He should have known better. He should have known _better._  
   
 _You stupid, idiot little hole. What are you good for, Tony? You’re reckless, senseless, you have the brain of a rat. What are you good for, Tony? What the hell are you good for?_  
   
I’m a bitch, Tony thinks miserably, trying to mop up the spilled ice tea from the old, crusted pages. I’m a stupid bitch-hole, and dad was right, and I deserve to be beaten for this, Steve should lock me in my bedroom with no food, he should take a wooden spoon and smack my hands till they bleed because that’s what you do with omegas who can’t keep their stupid, wandering fingers to themselves –  
   
He’s made it worse. He’s rubbed and rubbed at the maps in a panic, and now he’s worn through the paper. The ink is smudged. Western Europe is a sticky, blackened, tar-filled mess. The Middle-East is full of craters.  
   
He could hide them. He could try and hide his mistake. And when Steve next gets them out to lovingly point out towns and cities, recount his father’s war stories, test Tony on his dates and smile, proud, when Tony gets it right, Tony can just say they went missing. Maybe they were stolen. Maybe – maybe –  
   
But Steve isn’t stupid. He wouldn’t fall for that. And besides, he’ll notice when his favourite map, the huge detailed masterpiece hand-drawn and coloured, isn’t hanging on the wall. Steve has never hit him, not yet. He says, he won’t hurt Tony. Tony gets it; he’s liberal, he’s kind, he doesn’t believe in corporal punishment. Fine, great. But this is bad. This is really, really bad. Forget punishment – Steve might just be _angry._ And when people get angry…  
   
He doesn’t know how to make it right. Steve doesn’t like the other things he does. He won’t touch him, except to sometimes put an arm around his shoulder when he helps with Tony’s homework. He’ll kiss him, lightly on the cheek, when he goes away for work. When Tony was heat-sick a few weeks ago, he tucked him into bed, _and_ he helped him shower, but even though Tony was naked he _still_ didn’t touch him. So Tony can’t make it right that way. In fact, Steve just gets angry when he even tries to initiate that kind of thing.  
   
He rolls up the maps, soaked, ruined, and piles them against the wall. Smoothes down his hair, dries his palms. Dinner. He’s already late with dinner. Just going to make it worse.  
   
He’s too worried. It’s a struggle to breathe. His hands shake, and his spills boiling water on his pants, burning him a bright red. _You deserve it,_ he thinks, _you stupid little bitch, you deserve it._  
   
When he hears Steve opening the front door, he scrambles to his feet. He’d been crouched, hyperventilating by the kitchen sink. He tries to collect himself, splashing cold water on his face, fixing his hair and dabbing away sweat from his brow. That’s how Steve finds him, though; a paper towel stuck to his head, and soaked with water. “Tony?” Steve asks cautiously, instinctively, because Tony must smell like – yeah, panic, with a healthy dose of fear.  
   
Tony fixes his shoulders, breathes out through his nose. Just saying the words makes his stomach flip, adrenalin spike. “I’m sorry,” he says, “it was an accident. I didn’t mean to. I know I shouldn’t have touched your things, Sir, I just – I was curious. I was – I’m sorry,” Tony begs, because Steve looks impassive, like he _knows._ “I wanted to make sure I knew the answers for the test. For your test. And I – wanted to touch, because they’re so old, but there’s no excuse. You can – I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”  
   
Steve’s face is like stone. “Show me,” he says.  
   
Tony goes, hands trembling. He picks up the discarded maps, unrolls the worst on the table top. They smell like ice tea.  
   
“I see,” Steve says coolly. “You split your drink.”  
   
“I’m so sorry, Sir,” Tony whispers. Steve will hit him for sure. He’s never seen him like this. Worse – he’ll tell Tony’s dad. He’ll have the marriage annulled. That must be why he hasn’t touched him in bed yet, because he’s waiting, he wants to see if Tony is worth it.  
   
He’ll have to go back. Home.  
   
Steve raises his hand; Tony flinches, brings his shoulders up tight to his neck, prepares for the blow to the back of the head.  
   
It doesn’t come. A pause, and then Steve is lightly cupping his skull. “Pick these up,” he says, “put them away. We’ll deal with this later.”  
   
“I’m sorry.”  
   
“Okay,” Steve says, simply. He doesn’t say anything else. He drops his bag on the floor, and then he turns away.  
   
Tony can’t help it. It comes up inside him, bursts free, ugly, great hacking sobs. He slumps into a chair at the dining table, folds in on himself. “What is it?” Steve asks, brow furrowed. He seems more irritated than his usual kind, considerate self. “Did I do something? I’m not going to hurt you Tony, you know that.”  
   
Tony can’t speak. He shakes his head wordlessly. He doesn’t know how to say he’s not scared that Steve will hit him, he’s upset because Steve loved those maps, they were one of the only things he had left, and Tony ruined them. Put his stupid, bitch, omega hands all over them, that’s what you get when you let him near things, he just wrecks them, destroys them.  
   
“Tony, I don’t know what to do,” Steve says, frowning slightly. “I’ve had a rough trip. I’m upset you damaged the maps. What can I say?”  
   
Tony has never had this before. He’s had the mistake, and then the punishment. He’s never had the – aftermath. He thinks, Steve is angry with me, I can make this better. I can show him, prove it to him.  
   
“Wait,” Tony says, still sobbing, wiping his eyes frantically. “I can make dinner.”  
   
Steve softens. “Tony,” he begins.  
   
“I can’t,” his voice hitches, “I can’t bring back the maps, I’m sorry. I don’t know how. When – when I was twelve, I wanted to see how dad did his work. I just wanted to look. And I scratched his Roadster, all down the door. But I hadn’t meant to, I just – wanted to sit in it. I wanted to see how it works.”  
   
 Despite himself, Steve frowns. “What’s a Roadster?”  
   
“Car.”  
   
“But Tony, you’re not allowed to drive.”  
   
“I was just curious,” Tony says quietly. “I wondered what it looked like up front. Like with the maps – I saw you with them, and I – wanted to touch them. I wanted to feel like I could do that, like I could know something and touch something special. Like it was my right, like I was alpha, or something.”  
   
Steve sniffs. He rubs his hair, which is lying flat and stiff against his head, ruffles it so it sticks up pleasantly, disarmingly handsome. “You don’t need to cry,” he says, awkwardly. “I’m not going to – you know, I’m not your dad. I’m not your parent, I mean. When you do something wrong – I mean, when something happens… it’s not like when you lived with them, understand? You’re not a child.”  
   
That’s not true. Legally, Tony is still very much a child. And he feels like one, drying his eyes with the back of his hand, feet pointing inwards. This is very new. He doesn’t know how to be the best wife yet. He doesn’t normally cry. Once, Dad made him hold his heavy thesaurus over his head, and every time he dropped it he’d get a slap. _“Cry,”_ Howard had rasped at him, drink on his breath, seeing his wobbling chin, his droopy eyes. “Go on, you little bitch. Do it.”  
   
Tony’s arms were shaking, aching, burning. “Cry,” Howard had said, sounding sorry, sounding upset. “Why won’t you? Goddamnit boy, just _do it._ Why’d you have to be so goddamn stubborn? There’s no place for that, for someone like you, not for a bitch-boy.”  
   
Still, Tony _was_ stubborn. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. And now, here he is, crying like a kid who’s dropped his ice cream.  
   
“Is it something else?” Steve asks, tiredly. He really is tired, Tony thinks. He’s been away, probably travelling all day, and now Tony is just the cherry on the shit sundae. “Is it – is it something to do with me?” He hazards. “I know I’m gone, I – I want you to be happy, Tony. Are you lonely? This is your house, too. You can invite friends…”  
   
He trails off. It’s almost like he knows, instinctively, that Tony doesn’t really have friends. “It’s okay,” Tony says, swallowing, drying his eyes with the hem of his shirt. “I’m just sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. To the maps, I mean. I just – “  
   
“Wanted to see them. Yeah, I know.” A beat. “You’re a clever boy, Tony.”  
   
“I’m stubborn.”  
   
“Are you?” Steve asks, and when Tony looks up, he sees his eyes are crinkled. He’s smiling at him. “I don’t see that side often.”  
   
“Dad says I’m stubborn. Put myself where I don’t belong. Or I don’t listen even when I’m told, because I always think I’m right I guess.”  
   
“You know what I think, Tony?”  
   
Tony shakes his head.  
   
“I think you’re curious. And there’s nothing wrong with that.” He sighs, throws his jacket over the back of a chair. “You know, when I was your age, I had a lot more to do than just clean clothes and cook dinner. You’ve got to wonder what your parents were thinking, huh, taking you out of school so young.”  
   
“I was getting bad ideas. Bad behaviour.”  
   
“Oh yeah? Like what?”  
   
It’s embarrassing. “I wanted to be an engineer,” Tony says, ignoring the flush on his cheeks. “Like in a garage. Like a mechanic.”  
   
Steve laughs. It’s good natured, not cruel, the way Howard had laughed when Tony told him. “You need a GED to do that, Tony. You need to go to college, probably.”  
   
“Yeah. That’s why they took me out.”  
   
“When?”  
   
“I got through the first half of freshman year.”  
   
Steve flattens his lips. “Well, that’s a shame, Tony. I think you’d make a fine engineer.”  
   
“You’re just saying that,” Tony mutters.  
   
Steve is closer now. He can almost feel the warmth off him, scent him, smelling like new home. “I’m not. You can go back to school,” he tells Tony, earnestly. “I can get you enrolled. Or you can do night-classes. Or there’s that private one in Manhattan, right? Omega only? I’m sure there would be lots of people like you, a few years behind to have kids or whatever. What do you say? Would that be nice?”  
   
Tony thinks Steve has already thought of this. He’s researched and found out Tony’s options. “I,” Tony says, slowly, “I could – I guess I could get a tutor, or something. And then I could still be at home.”  
   
“Hey, if that’s what you want, kid,” Steve smiles, patting the side of his head. “I just want you to be happy. And busy. And – fulfilled.”  
   
Tony swallows, works up the courage, pulls it up from deep inside him. “You shouldn’t call me that,” he blurts.  
   
Steve had already turned to leave. “Huh?” He asks.  
   
“Kid. You shouldn’t – call me kid. I’m not your kid, I’m – your wife.” Tony tries to fix him the way Maria would fix Howard, rarely, when he needed to be put in line. “You should – you should t-treat me with respect.”  
   
Steve looks at him, looks like he wants to say something. “You’re right,” he manages. “I should. I’m sorry, if that offended you.”  
   
“It didn’t. I just – want you to know that – I know I’m young, and I can be childish, but I’m not a kid. I’m not. And I’m not stupid, either, so.”  
   
Steve frowns. “I’ve never thought you were stupid.”  
   
Tony nods. “Okay,” he says. “Thanks. I just want to be – equal. As much as I can be, given that I’m…” knotless, a hole, a bitch-boy.  
   
“Is that all?” Steve asks, with a small smile.  
   
Tony nods. “Yeah,” he says, with more confidence. “That was all.”  
   
“Well okay then. I’ll talk to some tutors. I’m fine without dinner Tony, just – make sure those maps go somewhere safe, alright?”  
   
“Alright,” Tony agrees, a little defensively. “I really didn’t mean to.”  
   
“I know, sweetheart. It was just an accident. We all make mistakes.”  
   
   
 _ **2011**_  
  
“He was angry,” Steve admits, carelessly avoiding incoming projectile. “He thought you and I were – you know. That we were doing things together.”  
   
“Can you blame him?” Natasha responds, terse, ducking to avoid another flying missile, easily dodging.  
   
“You wore the necklace,” Steve accuses, “you didn’t need to wear that necklace.”  
   
“I don’t know, Steve. Maybe a dose of healthy scepticism is good for him. I think he needed to doubt you.”  
   
Steve recoils, narrowly misses a fake arrow whizzing past his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”  
   
Natasha grabs his arm and pulls him down. “If this was real, you’d be dead.”  
   
“Explain what that means.”  
   
Natasha shrugs a shoulder, squints down the view of her rifle. “I don’t know. Maybe I feel sorry for him. You’re out here, fighting crime, and he thinks you’re a travelling salesman.”  
   
“He’s not your business.”  
   
Natasha looks at him scathingly. “I’m joking, Steve. I wore it because Stane’s got a type. The pearls were a part of that.”  
   
Steve frowns. “Stane’s type is pearls?”  
   
Natasha snorts. “No, Stane’s type is Tony. Incoming!”  
   
This time, the simulation throws an actual bomb at them, harmless, but smoky. It’s as good an excuse as any to cut off their conversation.  
   
He likes Natasha. Truly, he does. He never had any qualms about working with omegas; he’s just not the type. Before Natasha, there was Peggy. Steve hasn’t ever been one for breedism – if you can do the job, and do it well, you’re square in Steve’s books.  
   
Still, despite all their years working together – coming up on four – she remains something of an enigma. Undoubtedly, he trusts her with his life. But it’s in her nature to be duplicitous, written into her code. It’s not that he feels she’s working against him, or for another team; rather, that sometimes they run in parallel, with similar endpoints, but different goals. Even with an aim as short as discovering Iron Man’s identity, Natasha doesn’t match up with Steve. She has her own methods, her own ways. They’re not so much a partnership as two individuals with similar goals, benefitting off a mutual arrangement.  
   
Sometimes, Steve wonders what will happen when the day comes that Natasha and his’s goals don’t align. Will he still think so highly of her then?  
   
They’ve turned off the simulation, abruptly. “Huh?” Natasha says, raising her head; she had been in the middle of slaughtering a holographic opponent with a bit too much gusto. “What gives? We were making time!”  
   
Behind the one-way mirror, the door opens. Fury, flanked by Coulson, looking – harried? Maybe even a little panicked. He doesn’t mince his words: there’s a situation, you’re needed, it’s urgent.  
   
“Where?” Steve asks, accepting the proffered bottle from Coulson, downing it in one, wiping sweaty hair from his brow. Inwardly, he’s seething. He’s promised Tony he’d help him put up new furniture tonight. Tony doesn’t need the help, just the heavy lifting, but still. I was important to him, and now…  
   
There’s a stutter, a stumble. No one answers. “Where?” Steve presses, “will it be quick? I’m needed at home.”  
   
“Yeah,” Fury says, “you are. They’re there, Steve.” A beat; “I’m sorry,” he adds. “We don’t know. He could still be alive. I don’t want to give false hope – “  
   
Steve’s ears are ringing. “What?”  
   
“ – men. They want Captain America, or they say they’ll kill his bi – omega. Wife.”  
   
Natasha is pushing him. “Go,” she spits, “what are you doing, _go!”_  
   
He doesn’t have time to change. _He doesn’t have time to change._ He drives, but he’s still wearing his stupid fucking blue recon suit with the big fat star in the middle and the idiotic winged helmet. They’ll be expecting him, of course; they’ll be expecting Captain America. And worse, they know that Captain America has a weak spot, they _know_ he’s pretending to be someone he’s not, and now, finally, after all these years the worst has happened, the one thing he tried to stop –  
   
There’s emergency services outside the door to their building, and Happy is trying to coordinate the firetrucks, the police. “Hey!” He calls to Steve, “Hey, you! In the blue, you can’t go in there, it’s private property – “  
   
Steve jumps the cordon, takes the stairs. “Tony!” He’s calling out, screaming it, almost. “Tony! Tony! Tony!”  
   
The door to their apartment is broken through, slammed flat off its hinges. Instinctively, stupidly, Steve’s first instinct is to check the kitchen – when has Steve ever come home and Tony not been there? He promised him. He promised him, it would never happen again, he would never let anyone touch him again, hurt him again, not after Afghanistan, and yet – yet –  
   
There are dead bodies strewn around Tony’s kitchen. His kitchen. _Their_ kitchen. Three men, dressed in recon black. Two of them have their throats slit, and Steve can _see_ the knife that was used to do it, one of the fancy Japanese carving knives he bought Tony a few years back. The third – the third –  
   
Half of him has been incinerated. Burnt to a crisp. The half of his face that still exists is drawn, one eye widened with fear, his mouth twisted in a scream.  
   
Steve stumbles back. “T-Tony,” he tries again, turning. “Tony, I’m here, baby, I’m here. It’s me, I’m so – “  
   
There’s a metal man standing in his living room.  
   
“You,” Steve snarls, throwing the shield. The man catches it, deftly, in one iron hand, holds it out like a Frisbee. “What have you done with him. You fucking criminal, what have you done – “  
   
“He’s safe,” the robot man says, voice dull, mechanical, modulised. “You’re lucky I got here in time.”  
   
“I’m – lucky? Is that some kind of sick joke – “  
   
The Iron Man doesn’t seem impressed, but then, the faceplate makes it hard to tell. He appears angry, always. He looks down at the shield, then carefully places it on the floor. Slides it back to him with one foot. “I’m no threat,” he says. “You’re lucky I got here in time. They were going to hurt him.”  
   
Steve lifts his chin. “You – you were the one, then. Who killed them. In the kitchen.”  
   
The Iron Man nods. “What would you have done?” He asks, with mild curiosity, as much curiosity as his robotic voice can manage. “If they had hurt him, I mean.”  
   
Steve shakes his head. “Where is he?”  
   
“Safe, I said. I can go and get him. I’ll send him back in the suit.”  
   
“What?!”  
   
“I’ll go back to my – hideout,” The Iron Man says, like the word is distasteful to him. “That’s where he is. He’s fine. I’ll send him back wearing the suit. I can’t have you seeing where I’m based.”  
   
He’s turning, as if to walk away. “Wait,” Steve blurts, reaching out. “Stop. You – you saved him.”  
   
“Yes.”  
   
“Why?”  
   
The suit’s servos whir when Iron Man moves, then stills. “Because. They were going to hurt him. You weren’t here,” he says, almost reproachful. “They would have done worse than kill him.”  
   
“I know,” Steve croaks. “I – I don’t know how – “  
   
“You’re Steve Rogers.”  
   
It shouldn’t be a surprise; Steve isn’t wearing his mask. Still, it’s surprising that the Iron Man would know his name. “You know me?”  
   
“Mmm,” he grunts. “I know you. Captain America.”  
   
“Not anymore. Not really.”  
   
“I thought you were just a story.”  
   
“I am. I’m not that man, not anymore.”  
   
“I thought Captain America died in 1945.”  
   
A beat. “I did,” Steve says, carefully. “And then, I was found.”  
   
“You’re married?” Iron Man asks. “To him? To – the omega. Tony.”  
   
Steve doesn’t say anything at all.  
   
“I learnt about you. In school,” Iron Man adds. “You drowned. Or froze. Old Howard Stark – worked with you,” he finishes. He turns away. “I’ll bring him back, now,” he tells him, boots clumping.  
   
“Wait,” Steve says again, “you – I won’t tell them. I’m supposed to bring you in. But for this – I won’t.”  
   
“You wouldn’t be able to bring me in,” Iron Man says, with confidence, “but okay.”  
   
“And you won’t tell anyone,” Steve says, pointedly. “You won’t tell – _anyone,_ about who I am. Who I really am.”  
   
Iron Man halts by the balcony doors. “I won’t,” he says shortly.  
   
“Thank you. _Thank you._ I don’t know how else I can – “  
   
Iron Man takes off, propelling himself into the air, and then away. A marvel of technology, a true feat of engineering. Steve doesn’t know how far he trusts him; already, he’s kicking himself.  
   
And he feels like the worst kind of impotent. He calls Fury, he pulls some strings, and the emergency services leave. There are still dead bodies laying strewn around the floor. He can smell blood, some of it Tony’s, on the kitchen cabinets.  
   
The hours drag on. Steve should clean. He thinks, Tony shouldn’t have to see this, when he comes home. He shouldn’t have to see all the blood and death. But he’s so scared. Tony isn’t home yet. What if Iron Man lied? What if Iron Man is working with the intruders? What if Tony is dead somewhere, or worse, God, what if _worse --_  
   
And then, a dot on the horizon, bright in the dark night sky. Growing bigger, and bigger, and bigger. Steve stands on the balcony, braces his arm against the wind and light; Iron Man, again? No. Tony, spat out by the suit, stumbling to his feet, twisting to watch it fly away.  
   
He’s been hurt, on his forehead. He smells like sweat and stress. So Steve grabs him, pulls him close, and doesn’t let go.  
   
Tony is slack, yielding, unresponsive to his sobs. “I’m sorry,” Steve says, pulling back, wiping at his face. “God, you must think I’m such an – omega, I’m sorry. I just thought – you’re angry,” Steve realises, taking Tony’s face in his hands, thumbing gently at the gash on his brow, “I understand,” he nods, “you’re angry I wasn’t here. So am I. I’m so sorry, God, Tony, I thought I’d lost you, I thought they’d – “  
   
Tony’s shaking, slightly, pulling away from Steve’s agitations. “Who were they?” He croaks. “What did they want with me?”  
   
“Home invaders,” Steve lies, easily, falling from his lips, prepared. “Probably wanted to ransom you, Jesus – “  
   
“They didn’t want to ransom me,” Tony says dully. “You don’t do the things they did to me if you plan on selling me back. They didn’t do those things to me in Afghanistan.”  
   
He’s distant, his eyes fogged, unfocused. “Are you concussed?” Steve asks. “I’ll call the doctor – “  
   
“No doctor,” Tony says, walking past him, heading for the kitchen. “I need a drink.”  
   
“Tony no. Tony, don’t go in there! There’s – “  
   
“They’re dead, I know. I was there, Steve.” He steps over a decapitated body, stands on his toes to reach the wine glasses, pours himself a red. His hand is shaking. “Your man,” he says, holding the glass, clutching his arm to his chest, defensive, “the _Iron Man,”_ he says, bitter, acrid.  
   
“I know. If he hurt you, or touched you – “  
   
“He didn’t hurt me,” Tony spits. “I was – lucky he was there, Steve. That he showed up, that – he could make it. In time.”  
   
He looks away, swallows quickly, downs the glass, pours himself another. Steve doesn’t know what to say, so he waits.  
   
“The things they said,” Tony mutters, vehement. “They held that knife to my throat, you know. They threatened to put it up my cunt if I wasn’t good.”  
   
Steve shakes his head, weak, light-headed. “I’m calling a doctor,” he says, “you need a doctor, you’re shaking all over the place, God knows – “  
   
“They said other things,” Tony continues, staring at him, pointedly. “Unbelievable things.”  
   
Steve stills. “Like what?” He asks, heart in his throat.  
   
Silence.  
   
Tony drinks. He shrugs. “Unbelievable things,” he says, simply. “Things they were going to do to me.”  
   
“Ignore them,” Steve pleads, stepping forward. “They tried to scare you – “  
   
“They did.”  
   
“I wasn’t there. I’ll get security. I’ll have them posted in the foyer, I’ll have them work the perimeter. I’ll get you a new bodyguard, one that actually knows how to – “  
   
“No,” Tony snaps. “I like Happy.”  
   
“Then I’ll get you another bodyguard, someone who can actually hold his own in a gunfight,” Steve insists. “This won’t happen again, baby, I swear. Please.”  
   
Tony considers him. His eyes are narrowed, his face is – tight. He’s sneering. It’s a look so alien that Steve is momentarily, genuinely, surprised. “You’re weak, you know Steve? I used to think you were so strong.”  
   
He takes his glass, and the bottle. “Tony,” Steve begs, calling, like that changes something, proves anything, makes it all go away.  
   
He ignores him.  
   
   
 _ **2008**_  
   
He’s gentle with him, like talking to a spooked animal. “There,” he says, kindly, putting Tony on the couch, taking off his shoes for him. “I’ll get you blanket. Would you want anything else? Some water, something warm?”  
   
Tony shakes his head, then thinks again. “Wine,” he croaks.  
   
“Wine,” Steve agrees, and if he thinks that’s worrying, he doesn’t let on.  
   
Tony tucks his hands under his arms. They’re always cold, now. Circulation issues, maybe. From the arc. That’s fine. What can you do? It is what it is. He should be happy to be alive.  
   
Steve turned on the TV before he went to get Tony’s drink. They’re talking about his rescue. Tony tries to find the remote, but his hands are shaking so bad when he tries to mute, he drops it. Wincing, he reaches down, tries to pick it up, but he catches a bad angle and the arc presses on his lungs and suddenly he can’t breathe –  
   
“Let me get that,” Steve says hurriedly, reaching down, picking up the remote, pushing Tony back against the pillows. “Don’t strain yourself, sweetheart, please.”  
   
Tony is panting, deep sucking breaths like he just ran a race. He’s sweating. “Wine,” he rasps, and Steve hands it to him carefully. Tony stares at his fingers, curled around the glass, the red drops dripping down the side, over his skin. “Won’t stop shaking,” he says.  
   
“It’s alright,” Steve tells him, “I see it all the time. Just a little bit – shell-shocked, Tony, is all. It’ll pass.”  
   
Tony frowns. “Shell-shock?” he says, distantly.  
   
“Like, when you’re in a warzone, for example, and you get – “  
   
“I know what it is, I meant – “ Tony frowns, still mesmerised by his own unsteady hand, “they don’t call it that, anymore.”  
   
“Right. No, I know. I just meant – “  
   
Tony wants him to stop talking. He doesn’t want Steve’s gentle explanations, like he does when he thinks Tony doesn’t understand. He’s lacking his usual tact, though; they’d poked at him in the hospital, made him spread his legs and looked inside him, examined his teeth, prescribed things, scraped bits of skin off of him. He feels raw, like a plucked and presented turkey. “Shut up,” Tony says, absently, for the first time. He’s never told Steve to shut up before.  
   
Steve does. His mouth opens, the closes. “Tony?” He asks, tentatively.  
   
“I’m tired,” Tony says, by way of explanation. “Sorry, Steve. Sweetheart.” He hates that he has to mollify him. That even now, while he lies here sick and hurting, he has to pay attention to Steve’s feelings above all. “Not myself,” he continues. “Actually, I – maybe I need to use the toilet,” he says, looking apologetic. “I’ll just – “  
   
“Here, here,” Steve says urgently, about to help him to his feet. “I’ll get you, steady – “  
   
“I’m fine,” Tony snaps, pushing his hands away, and then again, more gentle. “I’m fine. I just – want some breathing room, okay? That’s all. I just want – I won’t lock the door, how about that? So you’ll be able to get me.”  
   
This seems to reassure him, although he’s still watching Tony hobble down the hallway when he finally shuts the door, closets himself in the peace and quiet of the bathroom. “God,” he mutters, running the tap. Cold water.  
   
He shoves his hand beneath it, brusque. He’s not afraid. So yeah, they dunked him in water a few times. They did a lot. It’s not like Tony can never take a shower again, or look at fire, or walk on sand. It’s not like he’s never going to be able to sleep in the dark, or bear the feel of an alpha’s touch.  
   
He washes his hands, washes his face. Stares at himself in the mirror. He’s lost weight. Wouldn’t mom be so proud? His face is leaner than it once was, but more than that. He’s lost his – his innocence, maybe. Tony doesn’t like to think of himself as innocent, but he was, and now… and now…  
   
He’ll get his hair cut. Tomorrow. First thing. It’s not good, lying around, moping, looking like a sack of shit set on fire. He’ll get his hair cut. He drums his fingers against the arc reactor casing; it’s a shame, he thinks. _I was so pretty before._  
   
He’ll have to work harder. Wouldn’t want Steve’s eyes to stray. He’ll call a dietician, too, get some meat back in the right places. What else? What else does he need to do?  
   
Somewhere, out there, is a suit, shattered and broken into pieces over the desert. Hopefully lost to the sands. That’s not who he is. That isn’t who he wants to be. He wants to be Tony Rogers, née Stark. He wants to be a nice wife, who worries about what he’ll cook for dinner, and what shirt his alpha needs for work, and whether the weather will be good for his cocktail party. He doesn’t want to think about – about children, and dying people, and sand and blood, all the way across the world. It doesn’t bother him. It doesn’t need to bother him.  
   
He can be normal again. He can be Steve’s omega again, couldn’t he? Everything would be normal, and sweet, and fine. Life would be so simple. He can still do that. It’s not too late. He can choose that. He doesn’t need to ruin it, continue on the path he’s heading down. Does he?  
   
Tony turns off the faucet, pats dry his face. Steve is knocking on the door. “Tony?” He asks, muffled by wood. “Tony, are you okay in there?”  
   
“Just a minute!” Tony calls, his voice hoarse. He grits his teeth, snaps the towel back on the rack. _Just a minute, sweetie! Wait a moment, baby! I’ll be right there, Stevie!_  
   
He hates him, suddenly, viscerally, his loving, kind, comforting alpha. The alpha who taught him so much, equipped him to make the best of everything he knows. If Tony hadn’t married Steve, he wouldn’t have made it out of that cave. Not with his only practical skills being push-point and piano. His alpha, who took him to school, and never hurt him, and adores him, worships him, smothers him with love and kindness.  
   
Tony wants to scream. _Leave me alone! Leave me in fucking peace!_ He doesn’t want it; he doesn’t want any of it, the too-much touching and concern, all the flowers and balloons and ‘get well soons!’. He wants to burn it all, burn them all. Ruin everything. He wants to smash his fists over and over and over until something gives, whether it’s him or his target. Something’s got to give. He can’t keep doing this, stifled. Something’s got to give. Something’s got to –  
   
Another knock. Tony is ready to snap. He’s ready to snarl and berate, to whip Steve with words, make him feel what Tony feels. _What?!,_ he’s about the spit.  
   
“I made cocoa,” Steve whispers through the door.  
   
Tony blinks. His throat feels thick, scratchy. “What?”  
   
“I, uh. I made cocoa,” Steve whispers again, so quiet. “I’m just gonna leave it here. By the door, I mean. So take your time. I just – didn’t want you to step on it, on your way out.”  
   
“Oh,” Tony wobbles, sitting on the toilet seat. “Okay.”  
   
He can hear Steve’s footsteps retreating. He’s sweating, all down his back. He made him cocoa. That’s all. He just wanted to let Tony know.  
   
His alpha is so sweet. His alpha is – too sweet. Tony was innocent, once, but Steve…  
   
It would kill Steve, if he knew. What Tony had done. What Tony was about to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is late, and I haven't been updating lately at all, but I would really appreciate it if you could head to my tumblr and hear me out.
> 
> [my tumblr](http://writingromanoff.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Other than that, it would cheer me up to know what you think of the dynamic, of how Steve treats Tony, and how Tony comes across. Thank you for being so patient with me, I hope people are still reading. Life has been... ugh.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY FUCKING GOD I POSTED THIS CHAPTED UNDER ANOTHER STORY I'M LITERALLY GOING TO SCREAM
> 
> Warning for emotional abuse in a flashback scene

There’s crashing coming from the kitchen.  
   
Steve slept on the couch last night. He doesn’t know where Tony slept. The bodies are still strewn on the floor, decomposing, and now their apartment smells like death. Steve chokes, covers his lower face with his hand, but Tony seems unbothered by the smell.  
   
“What the hell?!” Steve asks, incredulously. “What are you doing?!”  
   
Tony’s wearing one of those pretty cashmere sweaters wrapped around his head. He’s – the bodies – are severed, chopped up, piled in pieces in the corner. Steve wants to be sick, maybe. Tony’s pouring bottles of alcohol down the sink, one by one, their collection of scotch, and whiskey, and Jesus, even his _wine –_  
   
“That’s – thousands of dollars, Tony! Hundreds of thousands!”  
   
Tony shrugs. “I decided I should get a new hobby,” he says, flatly.  
   
“What, corpse desecration? What the fuck, why didn’t you leave them, have you just been _sawing_ at them all morning? Tony, I – “  
   
Tony tosses the empty bottle into the trash, the fifth filled bag. “If you want to be helpful, you take this shit to the trash yard,” he says, shortly. “I don’t know what to do with the bodies. I thought maybe we could melt them down at the workshop.”  
   
“No. I’ll call my – contacts. They’ll sort it.”  
   
“Your contacts? What contacts. You’re a salesman.”  
   
“Right,” Steve agrees, awkwardly, “but – my old contacts. In the military.”  
   
Tony looks at him with something akin to disgust. “Fine,” he says, “talk to your old contacts in the military,” he parrots, sardonic.  
   
“Tony,” Steve says, stepping forward, “about yesterday – “  
   
“What about it?”  
   
Steve halts. “Did he say something to you?”  
   
“Did who say what to me?” Tony taunts, flatly.  
   
“The Iron Man. What was he like?” Steve tries to dress it up, to lie, but he’s learning he isn’t actually that good at it. “Did he say something? Is that why you’re – angry?”  
   
Tony looks confused, a parody of confusion. “I don’t know,” he says, “is there something he could have said? What do you mean?”  
   
“I mean – you seem upset,” Steve says slowly. “So I wondered if Iron Man had said something, or done something.” He could have told Tony, even though he said he wouldn’t.  
   
“He didn’t say anything, _Steve._ Why? Is there something he should have said? Something he should have told me?”  
   
Silence. Tony stares at him, long, deep, eyes piercing. _He’s waiting,_ Steve thinks, _he wants an answer._ “No,” Steve says, shaking his head, holding up his hands helplessly. “I just wondered if he’d upse – “  
   
Tony turns, empties two bottles into the sink at once. “I can’t stay here,” he says, shortly. “It’s not safe.”  
   
Steve blinks. “What?”  
   
“I’m moving out. I can’t stay here. It’s not _safe.”_  
   
“Safe? It’s – Tony, I’ll get extra security – “  
   
“No. I’m moving out.”  
   
“Where will you go? There’s nowhere that’s more safe without me – “  
   
“I’m not going to be living alone. I’m going to live with Obie.”  
   
Steve’s heart drops into his chest. “No,” he says.  
   
“Yes. What, you going to say no? You going to tell me what’s best, Stevie?”  
   
Steve almost says, _you’re his type. You’re Stane’s type. His feelings towards you are not familial._ “No,” he protests, “it’s just – it’s unnecessary, Tony. If you don’t feel safe… we can get somewhere else. It’ll be private. I know people, people who can take us off the grid – “  
   
“You know people?” Tony interrupts. “Who do you know?”  
   
Steve doesn’t know what to say. “People from work,” he manages, weakly.  
   
“Huh,” Tony says, snapping the neck of a wine bottle on the counter, pouring it down the sink. “Just people, huh? Who can take us off the grid. What kind of – military recruitment officer has connections to people like that?”  
   
The back of Steve’s neck heats. _He knows,_ he thinks. Iron Man must have told him. He must have, seeing Steve in the red, white, and blue. _Tell him,_ Steve screams at himself, _just tell him, be honest, before it’s too late –_  
   
“It’s a tight-knit business,” he swallows. Tony rolls his eyes; he dumps the empty bottles into a trash bag.  
  
   
Stane picks him up personally. He makes small talk while Tony drags out a suitcase, a bag, the schematics he was supposed to be working on. “You know, I’m sure it’s not forever,” Stane is saying, smiling, pitying. “He’s just had a bad scare. You know as well as I how he was, after Afghanistan.”  
   
“Go fuck yourself, Stane.”  
   
This reveal of Steve’s true feelings doesn’t seem to bother him; instead of reacting, he just swings his car keys around his finger, checks his watch. “Tony, sweetheart,” he calls, “we should be going. We want to beat the traffic.”  
   
“If you lay one hand on him – “  
   
Stane looks shocked. “What kind of person do you think I am?” He asks.  
   
“Take this,” Tony says abruptly, shoving a box in Stane’s arms. “Steve? A word?”  
   
He lets Tony take him to the balcony, shut the doors. “You don’t have to do this,” Steve blurts, straight away. “You don’t have to go with him. We can move. I can make it safe. I – maybe we need that. Some time away, just us, together. I always – made promises, didn’t I? I’ll get time off work for real this time. We can go to Italy. I know you’ve always wanted to go to Italy.”  
   
Tony lets him say his piece. “Okay,” he responds, levelly. “Do you have anything you want to say to me? To tell me?”  
   
“I – “ Steve falters. “Just that I love you. I love you, and I don’t want you to leave.”  
   
Tony says nothing. He opens the door, walks back to Stane, lets it slam in Steve’s face so he’s running after him. Stane is smiling, hiking Tony’s box up his chest. “There there, Steven,” he says, sickening. “I’ll take good care of him. You know I always have, you have my word.”  
  
   
Natasha is his link, his spy. She’s Stane’s new squeeze, spends most of her nights at the apartment where Tony now lives. “He’s fine,” she’ll tell him, tersely. “He’s doing okay. You want my honest opinion? He’s sad, Steve. It’s like you’ve kicked a puppy.”  
   
“But I didn’t,” Steve stresses, “I _haven’t._ I understand why – you know, he can be – after Afghanistan. But I swear, I don’t know why – “  
   
Natasha looks at him, eyebrows raised, because she knows he’s not telling the whole truth.  
   
“I think – he knows Iron Man, somehow,” Steve admits, let’s on. He’s not sure how. He doesn’t know how his housewife could ever get involved with someone so – so terroristic. But he’s realising that maybe Tony has more depths than he let on – the Tony Steve knew would never have left his home, his alpha, his routine. And he never would have snapped in Steve’s face, berated him, sliced up dead bodies and poured his precious alcohol down the drain…  
   
Natasha frowns, thinking. “I don’t know,” she says, slowly.  
   
“You don’t know?”  
   
“I’ve been with Stane for a few weeks now. I… don’t know, if Stane has anything to do with it. With him, I mean. The Iron Man.”  
   
“But someone at SI,” Steve presses. “Someone Tony works with, maybe.”  
   
“Yeah,” Natasha says, elusive. “Maybe.”  
   
“You’ll keep me posted?” Steve insists. He has nightmares, of Tony coerced, forced into building a metal suit for some crony at SI, for some fucking industrialist with no talent. Even if Tony isn’t _technically_ capable of building a suit like that, Steve reckons he’d be capable of dreaming it up.  
   
He’s seen his weapons. Seen them in action, at least.  
   
“I worry about him,” Steve continues. “I worry about Stane. I don’t trust him, I don’t – “  
   
“Steve,” Natasha says gently, “I’m there. And for what it’s worth, Tony is busy. Stane barely sees him.”  
   
“Busy? Busy with what?”  
   
“He goes to the club a lot. Does a lot of swimming. He’s tanned, so maybe… sunbathing. I don’t know, does it matter? Shouldn’t you be glad he’s out and about, living his life?”  
   
“I am,” Steve says, truthfully. “But if he’s sad, and – and I’m not there – “  
   
“Steve, I talk to him. We talk, a lot. You know, he’s a funny guy? And clever, too. And pretty stubborn, when he wants to be. I don’t know what’s got you so worried.”  
   
“You talk to him?”  
   
“Sure. Omega things.” Natasha wiggles her fingers, and Steve lightly bats them away. “What, that scare you?” She snorts.  
   
“What does he say?” Steve asks, guardedly.  
   
“Steve, I can’t tell you that. That would be – a gross invasion of privacy.”  
   
“Does he talk about me?”  
   
“Sure.”  
   
“What does he say?”  
   
Natasha smirks.  
   
“What?” Steve says again. It never occurred to him that Tony might tell someone – an omega friend – things about their private life. He was always so loyal. He feels his cheeks flush, despite himself. Does he talk about Steve’s habits, their lacklustre sex life? His own insecurities and fears, the things he won’t tell Steve? Has he told Natasha about the babies, or lack of them? “What does he say?”  
   
Natasha softens. “He’s very fond of you, Steve,” she says gently. “He loves you a lot.”  
   
“But you can’t tell me what he’s said.”  
   
“I’m only Natalie Rushman. If he knows anything about your – identity, he wouldn’t tell me. But he talks about a betrayal, he says that he doesn’t know if he can trust you. He won’t tell me why.”  
   
“Does he mention – anything about affairs?”  
   
“We’re quite close,” Natasha says, smugly. “He asked me if we were having an affair. I trotted out the line you gave him about old work acquaintances.”  
   
“Don’t,” Steve warns. “Don’t do that, get close to him when – you’re not who you say you are. He thinks he’s making friends with a normal person, not – not – “  
   
He trails off. “Steve,” Natasha says, sympathetically. “Don’t be a hypocrite.”  
  
   
He thinks they all know, because he gets sympathetic looks in the hallway. A female tech keeps asking him if he wants coffee, and giggling when he says no. He doesn’t even know her name. Everyone politely leaves out the old, typical question of ‘and how’s the wife?’, and Barton stops asking for invites to one Tony’s famous dinner parties.  
   
He gets a memo. _The Director wants to talk._ Steve thinks, finally, a mission, a distraction, something to take him away briefly from all the stupid mistakes he’s made. Pierce smiles at him, tells him take a seat, offers him some _tea._ And then he sighs, and says, “I heard about Tony.”  
   
Steve tries his best. He nods, and says nothing.  
   
“They’re the best of us, you know,” Pierce says sadly. “Our omegas. We really – I sometimes feel we don’t quite give them the respect they deserve.”  
   
That’s probably true, Steve thinks.  
   
“I just wanted to discuss with you,” Pierce continues, “new arrangements. If your spouse is now aware – “  
   
“He’s not aware.”  
   
Pierce raises his brows. “How can you be sure?”  
   
“He’s not. I don’t think so. He’s upset, is all. Scared, after what happened.”  
   
Pierce nods. “It unsettled him,” he agrees. “Wouldn’t it unsettle you?”  
   
“If he knows, he would say,” Steve continues, although now that he’s said it, he’s not even sure. Would Tony say? Is Tony confrontational? Does he want Steve to admit it himself? “He’s not the type. To keep secrets, I mean.”  
   
Pierce examines him for a type. Exhales. “Well,” he says, “you don’t sound so sure, Steve.”  
   
Steve doesn’t respond.  
   
“Perhaps, after all this time, it’s worth telling him the truth. Even if he doesn’t know. This won’t be the last time, you know – it’s not like he won’t be put in the firing line again. Could I – could I speak off the record?”  
   
Steve smiles, tightly. “Of course.”  
   
“Son, he’s been a _good wife._ Do you know how hard those are to come by? I’m not saying this as a boss who sees a security risk, I’m saying it as – someone who’s older than you, who’s made these mistakes,” Pierce says gently. “Don’t let him go because you’re scared of the truth. If he loves you, he’ll forgive you. If he doesn’t forgive you…”  
   
“Sir,” Steve says, “I’d rather – “  
   
Pierce holds up his hand. “If he doesn’t forgive you, then you both deserve the chance to find happiness elsewhere, don’t you think? He’s given you twenty years of his life, Steve. Not to mention, he could have had children by now, if not for – “  
   
“Don’t,” Steve bites out. “Don’t. Just – just don’t. Sir,” he grits. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss that.”  
   
Pierce looks remorseful. “No,” he agrees, “of course not. I apologise. I – I’ll miss his dinner parties,” he says, trying to ease the tension.  
   
“When I’m ready to tell him, I’ll tell him, Sir. Was that all?”  
   
“Was that…? Oh. No. I have a job for you.”  
   
A job, from Pierce himself. “Must be something mighty important.”  
   
Pierce smiles. “Actually, if we could – still speak off the record. It’s a favour for me. I’d appreciate it if you kept it to yourself. Don’t tell Romanoff, or Fury. It’s better they – it’s better this stays between us.”  
   
Steve frowns. “Dangerous, Sir?”  
   
“No, not at all. Actually, it might be a bit mundane for someone of your – calibre. I have shipment coming in three days from now, I’ll send you time and place. I have a feeling some rogue elements might try and – disrupt it. Do you understand?”  
   
“Crystal, Sir.”  
   
“Good man. Details will be through tonight. That’s all. And – good luck, with Tony. I know you love him, sincerely. And for what it's worth -- I hear he loves you, too."

"You been reading my mail, Sir?"

Pierce snorts. “Natasha's been keeping me posted,” he admits. “That girl. There are no secrets with her around. Still, it must be nice for you to know that Tony has a friend.”

  
   
**1991**  
   
Tony burns his thumb pulling the meatloaf out the oven.  
   
Steve likes meatloaf. Loves it, in fact. So Tony had made it for him. Tony’s dad… doesn’t like meatloaf so much, but what Tony’s dad wants doesn’t matter anymore. This is Tony’s and Steve’s home. Howard will need to play by Tony’s rules.  
   
He had asked Steve is he could invite his parents for dinner. Because he misses them, of course. Not because he wants to – maybe show off his beautiful apartment, and his doting alpha, and the framed certificates on the wall. Tony hasn’t seen them since the wedding, that’s all. He just wants to see them. It’s not about proving a point, definitely not.

So anyway, his thumb is hurting when the doorbell rings, and he's panicking, because Steve promised he'd be home but he isn't. He'd promised he wouldn't be late, but -- sometimes Steve's work takes him out of the way. So it's out of his hands, he says. Which is fine. Although tonight of all nights, Tony kinda could have done with the moral support.

"Oh, Tony," his mother says, kissing him on each cheek, patting his hair. "Look at you. You're positively glowing. Isn't he just glowing, Howard?"

"Mmm," Howard nods, making a sickly face, like the kind words disgust him. "Yeah, Tony, you're a regular Betty Crocker."

Tony tries to smile, because he thinks that's a joke. "Hi, Dad," he says, and let's dad pull him in for one of his bear hugs, where he rocks him slightly from side to side, tight, warm, almost safe, if Tony didn't know better.

It goes well at first, kinda, sorta. Tony has to explain that Steve is late, and Dad says that's absolutely fine, he's a busy man who's working hard to provide for his son, keep his country safe. In that order, he adds, with a wink, and Tony laughs, because that's funny, and Dad is being nice tonight. Or he was, at least. Then it starts to sour.

“I’m getting my GED,” Tony tells them. “Actually I – got my GED. Last week.”  
   
Dad snorts. “What, in three months?”  
   
“Yeah,” Tony says quietly, “it wasn’t so hard, I guess.”  
   
“That’s more a testament to the standard of high school education and my good genes than any indication of your intelligence, Tony,” Dad sneers at him.  
   
“Lots of omegas are educated these days, Howard,” Mom seems to admonish, slightly. “It’s not unusual. No one is going to think any less of him. In fact, some people might say _we’re_ the ones behind the times.”  
   
As usual, Dad just grunts, waves her off, ignores her. “Not my problem anymore,” he says, pouring himself some more wine. “Steve’s a clever man, he knows what he’s doing.”  
   
“I really like him,” Tony says, tentatively. “He’s very kind to me.”  
   
“Well, that’s lovely,” Mom says warmly, smiling. “Isn’t that nice, Howard, that our boy’s all grown up with his own home and an alpha who dotes on him?”  
   
“Actually – “ Tony begins, gearing himself up. “Actually, now that’s I’ve got my GED, Steve was thinking – we were thinking – maybe I might do some college.”  
   
Howard is silent. He sips his beer. “College, huh?”  
   
Tony nods, once, furtive. “I wouldn’t go away,” he explains, feeling like he’s asking permission. “I would do some courses, you know, at the local college. And then, if it works out…”  
   
Howard snorts. “What,” he says, “you’ll graduate? Get a job? If it works out, what?”  
   
“Nothing,” Tony says, quietly. “I wouldn’t do anything.”  
   
“You see?” Howard says, tipping his beer at Maria. “Indulgent. What kind of ideas are you getting, Tony? It’s cruel, if you ask me, letting you learn all the junk with nothing to do with it. Why does a housewife need to do math? Philosophy? You going to ruminate over your canapes?”  
   
Howard has made himself laugh, great bellyful things. He slaps his hand on the table, rattling the cutlery, making a candle wobble ominously. “Art!” He barks, “Science! Literature! What will it – what will it – “ he wheezes, sucking in deep breaths, “what will it be, Tones, huh? You gonna be a CEO when you grow up? You gonna be a professor, a military man? What will it be?”  
   
The idea is hysterical to him. Tony calmly straightens his plate. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about becoming an engineer.”  
   
Howard halts. Chokes a little. And then there’s dead silence. “An engineer?” He asks. “What does that mean?”  
   
“Dad,” Tony says, regretting the words even as he says them, “c’mon. I shouldn’t have to tell you what an engineer is, it’s your job.”  
   
Howard throws his knife, with pin-point precision for a drunk. It practically shaves the hair off the side of Tony’s head and embeds itself in the wall behind him. “You think your funny, boy? You think you’ve got a sense of humour now, that you can talk to your old man like that? You think I can’t still touch you, that you’re not mine?!”  
   
“I’m not yours,” Tony says, quietly. “You can’t.”  
   
Howard covers his eyes with his hand. “God,” he laments, “of all the children God could have granted me. I could have had sons. And here, I’ve always tried my best by you, Tony. Haven’t I given you everything you could possibly want? I’ve tried to make you understand, life is _different_ for you. You can’t say these things, do these things – think of what people will say!”  
   
Tony has heard this lecture before.  
   
“Do you know what it’s like out there?” Howard continues, frothing. “It’s not kind, Tony, it’s not sweet. You don’t get to just bat your bitch-boy lashes and get people to bend over. You’d be ripped to shreds. People would _laugh_ at you. I’m just trying to protect you from that, understand? I don’t want you to have to deal with that.”  
   
“You don’t have to protect me. I have Steve, now.”  
   
Something flashes in Howard’s eyes, cold and cruel. “Oh ho,” he says, baiting. “You have _Steve_ now, do you?”  
   
“He’s good to me,” Tony says, defensively. “He wants me to get an education, he said so himself.”  
   
“Wants you busy, does he? Nice and distracted?”  
   
Tony blinks. “I – well, maybe. There’s more to life than cleaning and hosting – “  
   
“You know him well, do you? He trusts you with everything, tells you all about his day?”  
   
“Howard,” Maria says, quietly. “Don’t.”  
   
“He – he’s gone. A lot. He’s busy. That’s his business, it’s not my place to interrogate him – “  
   
“Right, but he opens up, doesn’t he? Tells you all about the places he’s been, what he’s done, the people he’s seen. You know exactly what he does, don’t you? What his actual job is?”  
   
Tony feels shame, burning his cheeks, flushing his throat. “It’s – it’s not my place,” he repeats, weakly.  
   
“No,” Howard sneers, “it’s not. You’re a pet, Tony. You’re like a houseplant. No man like Steve is ever going to see you as his equal, understand? He can educate you all he wants – it doesn’t change the fact you’re like a child, to him. Sure, he wants you to do well. He wants you to look pretty, and be happy. I had a dog once, Tony – I got it a leather collar, and a warm bed, and I fed it the best food. But I didn’t think it was my equal. And it never would be. Because at the end of the day, it was a bitch, that walked on all fours, and I’m fucking bipedal. Do you understand? I said, do you _understand?”_  
   
“I understand,” Tony says, almost inaudibly.  
   
“What was that?” Howard says, holding his hand to his ear. “I didn’t quite catch that, Tony. What _exactly_ is it you understand, now?”  
   
“I understand. That I’m not – equal. I’m sorry, Dad.”  
   
Howard relaxes. Claps his hands. “There,” he says, calmly, dabbing his mouth with one of the napkins Tony folded into the shape of a crane, “that wasn’t hard, was it Tony? I’m only looking out for you, you know. It’s a dangerous world out there. We can’t have people trying to tear you down just because you’ve gotten too big for your boots. It hurts less to fall if you’re already on the ground, Tony, doesn’t it?”  
   
Tony nods.  
   
“Excellent. Now, Maria, why don’t you tell Tony all about that wonderful thing you saw in the park the other day, the little sausage dog on the skateboard? Oh boy, Tony, wait till you hear this, it’s the best thing you’ll hear all week.”  
   
   
Pierce has sent him to a warehouse. It’s not Steve’s job to know what he’s protecting – weapons, new tech, one of those projects that goes above most of SHIELD’s security clearances. Maybe World Security Council related, who knows. Steve has been Pierce’s man on the ground for years – not that he minds. There are worse men to work for. And Pierce is good, always has been, honest and blunt and kind. Any man who turns down a Nobel prize is a man Steve can respect, he figures.  
   
Still, the place isn’t exactly bustling. Whatever – or whoever – Pierce feared making an appearance hasn’t shown. Steve checks his watch – almost 1AM. Pierce said he could clock off at 1, that the delivery men will be there to pick up the shipment. So slowly, he’s letting his guard slip, yawning slightly, fantasising about going home to his warm apartment with his sweet, willing wife, who has forgiven him, and loves him, and had maybe made that pot-roast Steve loves so much –  
   
He’ll give Iron Man this – the suit is efficient. Effective. Steve barely hears him, in fact, if he didn’t have super-soldier hearing, he might not have noticed at all. As is, he hears the servos whirring, just slightly; he recognises the sound, from the night the suit returned Tony. There’s a distortion of light slipping behind a tower of boxes, a translucent, convex bulging of air. Man-shaped.  
   
Steve doesn’t think; he _throws._ “ _You,”_ he snarls, shield bouncing harmlessly off his faceplate, disabling the chameleon effect, “you _bastard._ You told him. You told him – “  
   
“I didn’t tell him _anything,”_ Iron Man grunts, pushing Steve away with a repulsor blast. It’s not hard enough to wound, only to push him off his chest. “Did you ever stop to think that maybe he isn’t stupid?”  
   
“He isn’t stupid. He’s – I’m careful. I was always so careful – “  
   
Iron Man puts stands, puts down his hands. “Your house was broken into by men looking for _you._ What kind of military recruiter actively has assholes break into their home and try to kidnap their wife?”  
   
“Anyone can have home invaders – “  
   
“I’m not here to give you marriage advice,” Iron Man snaps.  
   
Steve seems to come back to himself. Is he stupid? He’s just caught _Iron Man_ rifling though Commander Pierce’s top-security shipment. “Then why are you here?”  
   
“Same as you. This is my area of – interest,” Iron Man says, almost like he’s making a joke. “You know, have you ever considered telling him?”  
   
“I thought you weren’t here to give me marriage advice,” Steve shoots back.  
   
“Yeah, well. I’m just saying. He knows something’s up, you’d be better just – cutting your losses. Letting him know. You’re not getting him back any other way, what do you have to lose?”  
   
“A lot.”  
   
“He might respect you,” Iron Man presses, “if you told him. I know I would.”  
   
Steve turns, nose wrinkled. “What the fuck’s your deal, man? Who are you, Oprah?”  
   
“I’m someone with a significantly better love life than you, I guess. I don’t think your omega is stupid, Captain. Do you?”  
   
“He’s not stupid,” Steve spits. “I know he’s not.”  
   
“Then why not tell him?”  
   
“Because – he wouldn’t understand. It’s not his life. It’s not the life I’ve given him. He wants – nice things, and good life, and me doing what I do – being what I am – “  
   
“Have you ever asked him what he might want?”  
   
“I know what he wants. Sometimes – sometimes he doesn’t.”  
   
A beat. “Huh,” Iron Man says. “Now isn’t that some paternalistic bullshit. I’m surprised he didn’t guess you were from the forties already, if that’s your attitude. Maybe he is stupid, not to notice.”  
   
“He’s vulnerable.”  
   
“How?”  
   
“How? I – don’t fucking know why I’m having this conversation, with a stranger, in an abandoned warehouse.”  
   
“How is he vulnerable?” Iron Man presses, stepping closer. In the suit, he’s taller than Steve, can there’s no way of telling where his eye-line rests.  
   
“Why are you so obsessed with my omega?” Steve questions, bracing his shoulders.  
   
“Because,” Iron Man seems to sneer, although there’s know way of knowing, “I feel sorry for him. He must be pathetic, all those years, waiting patiently for you to come home while he made your dinners and sewed your shirts back together and hung off your arm like a fucking Christmas tree decoration. Or maybe it’s not him. Maybe I just hate to see blatant – disregard, disrespect, treating him like he’s a _child –_ “  
   
“Don’t you _dare,”_ Steve spits, actually spits, on the shining surface of the mask. “He isn’t pathetic, don’t you dare _ever_ call him pathetic to my face, or anywhere else. He isn’t pathetic, he’s a – genius, and he’s cleverer than you – “  
   
“Oh yeah? Pathetic, vulnerable, what’s the difference, Steve?”  
   
“The difference? He – he’s strong. He’s clever. I didn’t say he wasn’t. I said he’s _vulnerable._ He – I don’t expect you to understand. You need to leave us alone. Go, before I regret not telling Fury – “  
   
“But what does that _mean?”_ Iron Man asks, stepping even closer. “Vulnerable. Not weak, fine. Not stupid, fine. But what do you mean by that? What are you trying to protect him from? Is it – your line of work? No, because him _knowing_ doesn’t mean he’d be a target. What _is_ it?”  
   
Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. “Why are you so obsessed with my wife?” He asks, quietly.  
   
“You don’t have to talk,” Iron Man says. “I’m not forcing you.”  
   
Steve narrows his eyes. “But why do you want to know these things about him? What are you planning?”  
   
“Jesus, Captain, nothing. I just – “  
   
A beat. Iron Man’s helmet lifts, slightly, looks beyond Steve. “Shit,” he says, “Steve -- !”  
   
A crushing blow. Rubble, concussive, overwhelming, raining down around him. He chokes, coughs in dust, and then he’s – he’s –  
   
Going black. Ouch.  
   
   
He’s not sure, but he thinks he might be flying.  
   
He can hear traffic, blearing, blearing. It’s dark out, cold, very cold. He’s – hanging? He’s –  
   
“Almost there,” he can hear Tony say. Oh, Tony, sweet Tony. What would he be doing all the way up here, in the sky?  
   
   
Abruptly, he’s lying down. Was he ever in the sky to begin with? Perhaps a dream. A hallucination. His head is _splitting,_ every part of him feels like something is cracked, dislocated, out of order. He groans, rolls his head, and –  
   
He’s on his _couch._ His couch. At his home, his apartment. The clock on the bookshelf says it’s nearly 4AM, and there’s a – music. It’s music. Classical. Oh.  
   
_Tony._  
   
He can hear him, shuffling beside him, somewhere. “Tony?” He calls out, voice crackly, weak. “Is that you, Tony? Are y’home?”  
   
“I’m here,” Tony says, immediately, voice hushed. “Shh, shh I’m here, sweetheart.”  
   
“You came. You know?”  
   
“I heard you were hurt,” Tony says, slightly breathless. He takes Steve’s head, tips it this way and that, examines his eyes.  
   
“You’ve been talking to him,” Steve says, without animosity, just curious. “Iron Man. He tells you things.”  
   
“He’s a – friend,” Tony says quietly, kneeling besides him, wringing out a sponge. “Just – just don’t move, okay? You have glass stuck everywhere, just – stay still.”  
   
“Tony,” Steve croaks.  
   
“It’s alright,” he soothes, smoothing back Steve’s hair, laying his brow with a cool towel. “I’ll get these out, and then you can have some nice soup.”  
   
“No. Tony,” Steve presses, gripping his wrist while he strokes his brow. “I didn’t – you know this wasn’t an accident.”  
   
“Of course it was,” Tony says, “it was a silly accident, wasn’t it Steve? And Iron Man – “  
   
“Tony,” Steve says, quietly. “You know who I am.”  
   
Tony says nothing. He sets out some bandage, scissors, tweezers. “Let’s get this glass out, shall we? It’s going to hurt a bit, honey.”  
   
Steve’s head hits the pillow. Tony delicately picks at the glass embedded in his upper arms and shoulders, his face, his neck, all the places he couldn’t reach. It’s warm, in his apartment. Their apartment. The place they’ve lived, together, all these years.  
   
“Tony,” Steve chokes. He covers his hand, which is firm, steady, with his own, still marked and scratched and bruised. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.  
   
Tony nods, like that’s okay. “I know,” he says, simply. “Lie back down.”  
   
Steve does. Tony is humming. He sponges the blood and dust and grit off of Steve’s chest with a warm sponge, presses a hand under his neck. “You’re hot,” he says, gently. “Will you get infected?”  
   
Will you. Not, are you. Because Tony knows, now, there are different rules for Steve.  
   
“No,” he whispers. “I get hot. When I heal.”  
   
Tony leaves, and comes back with a bowl of iced water, dampens the towel, wipes sweat away from the crevasses of Steve’s body. He paints the cuts with iodine, to be safe, and bandages his chest and arms, the places worst hurt. He leaves a glass of water by Steve’s side. He fluffs his pillows. He drapes a blanket across his legs.  
   
“I’ll be on the other couch, if you need anything,” he says, dimming the lights, setting the fire in the grate.  
   
“I’m sorry,” Steve croaks. He’s not sure for what. For lying. For showing up here, like this, and making Tony care for him.  
   
“Okay,” Tony says, gently. “Don’t worry yourself with it now. Just sleep.”  
   
He does.  
   
   
It’s warm, sun on his face.  
   
Steve winces. His first sensation is pain. Not – tight pain, or particularly sharp. But dull exhaustion, and aches. He wants to curl up, pull the blanket over his head, but the couch has always been too small for him and his stupid, super-soldiered sized body.  
   
Tony is sitting on the chair by the balcony doors, considering the city. “How long does it take you to heal?” He asks, measuredly.  
   
“About – another day. Maybe two.”  
   
Tony nods, accepts this. “Okay,” he says, “what would you like for breakfast?”  
   
“You don’t need to – “  
   
“You can barely stand. What would you like?”  
   
“Usual,” Steve croaks.  
   
“Oatmeal it is.”  
   
He sets it up on the balcony. Oatmeal, Steve’s paper, his slippers, his coffee. He helps him walk to the table, helps him sit, drapes a blanket around his shoulders and squeezes them, slightly. For breakfast, he has only a cup of coffee. It’s routine. It’s just like how it used to be, before.  
   
“Were you ever going to tell me?” Tony asks mildly, watching him eat, squinting against the sun. Steve swallows.  
   
“I don’t know,” he says, honestly. “If I ever thought you were ready.”  
   
“And why did you think I wasn’t?”  
   
Steve looks away. “Tony…”  
   
“Is it because I’m vulnerable? ‘Vulnerable,” he mutters, “what does that even mean?”  
   
“He told you,” Steve says, flatly. “Just how close _are_ you with Iron Man?”  
   
“Close enough.”  
   
“How do you know him? Does he work at SI?” Steve probes.  
   
“This isn’t about me,” Tony redirects. “We’re talking about you. Explain to me what that means when you say I’m too vulnerable to know.”  
   
Steve opens his mouth. He shuts it. “I don’t think you’re weak,” he says. “I know that word has connotations, I don’t mean it in the way you think.”  
   
“Then explain the way you _do_ mean it,” Tony replies, calmly. He doesn’t seem angry, just thoughtful.  
   
Steve takes a breath. “When we were married,” he begins.  
   
“Oh, hell,” Tony mumbles, looking out over the city. “Not this again.”  
   
“Tony, I – “  
   
“You’re going to say I was too young. Well I’m not young any more. What’s your excuse now, huh?”  
   
“I thought you were going to let me explain?”  
   
Tony shrugs a shoulder. “Fine,” he says, “explain.”  
   
“I was found,” Steve starts again. “Your dad found me, under ice.”  
   
“When?”  
   
“1990.”  
   
“He always was obsessed,” Tony muses. “He used to spend all that time…”  
   
“I wasn’t good,” Steve admits. “I wasn’t – well. Do you know what I mean? I was… I was lost. Depressed, I guess you would call it – “  
   
“I do call it that, yeah.”  
   
“After about a year, living in a bunker, your dad decided it wasn’t fit for me to just wallow. He wanted to get me out in the world. I was young, he said, and he – he had a son,” Steve says, slowly. “He was looking to get you married off, and I was a nice guy, military, it would mean I was kept close, and it would mean he knew you – were well taken care of – “  
   
“I get it. Match made in heaven.”  
   
“He never asked you,” Steve suggests. “He never asked, did he? Whether you’d want to marry me.”  
   
“I didn’t know anything about you Steve. I just – hoped you would be kind,” Tony says, and then again, softer: “you are kind, for what it’s worth. You were always good to me.”  
   
“But that’s just it,” Steve explains. “I saw you, that day – remember? For lunch? And you were nervous. I could tell you were nervous, you’d barely look me in the eye, even though – I wasn’t much better. And after, Howard asked me if you were good enough, and if you weren’t, he would set you right, and I couldn’t bear – I couldn’t.”  
   
Tony purses his lips, keeps staring out over the city. “He could be hard,” he agrees. “But only when I deserved it.”  
   
“You had welts,” Steve says, keeping the derision from his voice. “On our wedding night, I remember. When you turned over, you had these – from a belt. But you must have really deserved it, huh?”  
   
Tony swallows. “He just wanted to get one in for posterity,” he mutters.  
   
“I’m sure he did. You were crying during the ceremony, Tony.”  
   
“From happiness,” Tony insists.  
   
“Oh please,” Steve scoffs. “I lifted the veil and you looked like you wanted to puke.”  
   
“Who wants to have their first kiss in a packed church with their parents looking on? I was justifiably nervous. For all I knew, you were some kind of deviant in bed who’d string me from the ceiling. I didn’t know what I was getting into.”  
   
“That’s the point,” Steve presses. “You didn’t know. You didn’t have a choice. Neither – neither did I, really. I didn’t have a place in the world, Howard offered me one, I took it. I think – if you hadn’t come along…”  
   
“That’s great, but it doesn’t explain why you think I’m vulnerable.”  
   
“Why I – seriously? You can’t see why I think – the omega who cried at our wedding, who came to me with whip wheals on his thighs, and called me ‘sir’ for the first two months of our marriage, might be vulnerable?”  
   
“But I’m not seventeen anymore,” Tony says, quietly.  
   
“No,” Steve agrees, slowly. “You’re not.”  
   
“But still, you didn’t tell me.”  
   
“I didn’t want to – scare you. Unsettle you. You seemed content, you know? Playing house, it suited you. If I went and – “  
   
“ _Playing_ house?”  
   
“Christ,” Steve mutters, “no, that came out wrong. You know what I mean – “  
   
“Is that what I’m doing? Playing house? Are you keeping me busy while you’re out at work, like – like I’m a puppy? Is that what I am to you, Steve, am I a pet? A hobby?” Tony’s eyes widen. “I _am,_ aren’t I? God, I am! That’s how you think of me, of course it is!”  
   
“Tony – that’s not what I meant! I mean – you were happy, I knew you were happy. Those first few months – they were rocky, I know, but we made it work. And every day that went by… you were happy, being Steve Roger’s wife. If I told you it wasn’t true – that I wasn’t even who I said I was – “  
   
“You cried on my shoulder,” Tony says, accusatorily. “You cried about the parents and two sisters you said _died_ in a _fire – “_  
   
“I’m sorry. The grief was real. It was hard for me too, Tony, never being able to tell you the truth. I _wanted_ to tell you the truth, I just – “  
   
“Hard for you? Hard for _you?_ ”  
   
“Listen to me,” Steve pleads. “When I came out of ice – you have to understand. I had nothing. No one. There wasn’t a single person left I knew, or understood. I spent a year underground just – trying not to kill myself. You can’t understand – I’m sorry, you _can’t –_ what it felt like, not being able to – simple things. Easy things. People don’t say hi to each other on the street anymore. Omegas walking around in suits, as lawyers and doctors. Fucking – fucking phones, and computers, and clothes that show too much. I couldn’t relate, I couldn’t even – “  
   
Steve runs out of steam. “All I had,” he says, “was my work, and was you. And after I married you, it was you, and work, in that order. I knew I was going to do all I could, everything I could, to keep you safe, to keep you happy. Because you made me smile. And you were _kind_ to me. And you’re clever, and witty, and have always, always, been loyal. The thought of losing you… years went on, I got in too deep. And we were happy, I think, weren’t we? With the dinner parties, and our friends, and our apartment. I thought, I can’t risk this. Not just for us – for you. So maybe it was selfish of me, but I didn’t do it only for me. And I can’t – say anything, or do anything, to make you believe me more than that. I can’t.”  
   
“Well,” Tony says sourly, “unfortunately, Steve, it’ll take a bit more than that to convince me.”  
   
“That’s fair,” Steve swallows.  
   
Tony jerks his chin. “Iron Man,” he says, “why are you so interested in what he’s doing, huh? The big men got you looking out for him?”  
   
“I don’t understand why _you’re_ so interested in what he’s doing. He works for SI, right? He must work for SI, and you must know at least some of what he’s doing – “  
   
Tony is tight-lipped. “So you are investigating, then. You’re all obsessed. Why can’t you just let him get on with it, he’s not _hurting_ you, if anything, he’s helping!”  
   
“We thought it was Stane,” Steve says, and even saying it feels strange, sharing this with Tony. “The suit. That he had commandeered it somehow, was flying it remotely.”  
   
“Remotely?” Tony says, raising a brow. “No. That won’t be possible for a few more years, at least. You know, technologically speaking.”  
   
“But you know him,” Steve presses, “you’ve seen him, talked to him. You must know who he is.”  
   
“No. I don’t. Why would Iron Man share his identity with a fucking omega?”  
   
“I know it sounds strange. There’s a mole inside SI – “  
   
“What?”  
   
“A mole. Like, a double agent.”  
   
“No, I know what a mole is, idiot. I meant, _what?!_ Who?”  
   
Steve blinks. Tony has never called him an idiot before. “Someone is selling weapons to terrorists.”  
   
“No,” Tony shakes his head, “that doesn’t come from _inside_ SI. I thought – someone was buying us up, selling them on. That’s what Iron Man said. That’s different. That doesn’t mean there’s someone _inside_ the company illegally. Like in Libya, a few weeks back, those weapons didn’t come from SI, they came from – somewhere else.”  
   
“Pierce’s intelligence is that it’s someone within the company,” Steve explains. “And – how the hell do you know anything about Libya, anyway?”  
   
“It’s my _job,”_ Tony says, sounding irritated. “You’re saying you think there’s a mole? Inside Stark Industries?”  
   
“Sure. And we thought Stane was Iron Man. That he was trying to take out all the illegal shipments, you know, retribution.”  
   
Steve isn’t sure what’s happening, but he can see the gears in Tony’s mind turning. “You think _Obie_ is Iron Man?” He asks. “That’s your grand idea? The combined minds of the world’s best intelligence operation and their super-soldier Captain, and _that’s_ what you came up with?”  
   
“It makes sense,” Steve says defensively.  
   
“It makes – no, it doesn’t. Are you all stupid? Does Obie even have the ability to make a suit like that?”  
   
“He has a background in – “  
   
“He majored in physics and did an MBA! You seriously think someone with just an undergrad in – “ Tony stops, abruptly. “I mean – does he even strike you as the type?!”  
   
“Whoever he is, is good at hiding. Could be Stane has a humanistic streak – “  
   
“Jesus, Steve, I love the guy but he’s an asshole, even I could tell you that.”  
   
“Tony,” Steve says gently, “I know you do. But when we look at facts, all the evidence points to him.”  
   
“All the evidence points to him,” Tony says, flatly. “Seriously. All the evidence points to _him.”_  
   
“Well, you wanted to know,” Steve says, a little defensively.  
   
“Quite frankly, I’m a little insulted,” Tony mutters. “All the evidence points to him, my ass. Seriously? There’s _no one_ you think could be Iron Man, other than Obie? There’s not a _single person_ working at SI, with a vested interest in halting illegal weapons trafficking, with the brains and balls to put on a metal suit and fight terrorism?”  
   
Steve blinks. “I’m not sure what you mean, Tony.”  
   
Tony stands. “Thanks for the tip,” he says scathingly. “About the double-dealing – fair dues, I wouldn’t have figured that out on my own. But as for the rest of it – Jesus Christ, man. Either everyone at SHIELD is stupid, or there’s something they’re hiding. It’s almost like they don’t _want_ you to know. Jesus,” he muttering to himself, “God, the world is held in the hands of idiots.”  
   
“You – wait!” Steve hears himself cry out. He’s gripping Tony’s wrist across the table. “Wait,” he says again, calmer. He lets go without being told.  
   
Tony rubs at his wrist. “What?” He asks.  
   
“You’re not staying,” Steve states, plainly. “You won’t – stay.”  
   
“You’ll heal up fine, won’t you?”  
   
“Yeah. I will. But Tony – “  
   
“Steve,” Tony says, softly.  
   
“I don’t think it’s safe for you, with Stane. I don’t he has your – best interests at heart.”  
   
“Probably not,” Tony agrees.  
   
“So stay,” Steve pleads, quietly. “I know what I did was wrong. I know I’ve lost your trust. But just stay, and let me – let me prove it to you. Please.”  
   
Tony shuts his eyes. He swallows. “I _can’t,”_ he says, almost imploring Steve to understand. “It’s not – I have things to do, understand? Work.”  
   
“You can work here.”  
   
“No, it’s – sometimes, it’s good to be in the belly of the beast. Do you understand?”  
   
“You’re not making any sense.”  
   
“I’m not making a sense?” Tony shoots back. “Steve I – I feel like I don’t know who you are.”  
   
“Please let me show you.”  
   
A beat. Tony exhales. “You could – you could take me out on a date,” he says, with finality.  
   
“A date?”  
   
“Sure. You could, uh,” and Tony is looking at his feet, shuffling one against the floor, the way he used to do when he was younger. When he was shy. “You could ask me out, I guess. I just think – we never dated. So maybe we could date, for a bit.”  
   
“A date. I can do that. Yes, yeah, Tony, whatever you want, I’ll – “  
   
“And I want – couple’s therapy,” Tony adds, awkwardly. “I want to do that with you. I don’t want it to just go back to normal, Steve, I can’t do that. I’m not – a pushover. If you want me back, you want me on my terms, not yours.”  
   
“Therapy,” Steve agrees, readily, “absolutely. Except – it might be hard, with my situation. To find someone who has a, uh – a security clearance.”  
   
“You’re telling me there’s no one at your fancy top-secret job to specialise in therapy?”  
   
“I’ll find someone,” Steve promises, “I swear it. Straight away, I’ll tell you.”  
   
“Okay,” Tony says, clenching his fists. “Fine. Okay, okay, okay,” he sounds nervous, on edge, smells it, too. “I want this to work, Steve, I – like you, a lot. I mean, we’ve been together so long. You were always so good to me…”  
   
He trails off. The wind lifts his hair, slightly. It’s longer than he usually wears it.  
   
“You won’t stay?” Steve asks again, gently. “Not even for tonight?”  
   
Tony looks at him, looks him directly in the eyes. “Do you understand why I can’t?”  
   
Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. “Yes,” he says, honestly.  
   
“Good.” Tony reaches down, presses a kiss to the crown of Steve’s head. “Lots of water,” he advises, “I know you’re a super-man, or whatever, but – bed-rest, please. And if you need something, don’t be afraid to call.”  
   
“Thanks, Tony.”  
   
“It’s fine. You’ll be burning up a lot of metabolic energy healing all that, so – please, take it easy. No jumping off buildings or – battling whales.”  
   
“What is it exactly that you think I _do?”_  
   
A smile teases Tony’s lips, threatens to invade his face. “I don’t know,” he says, “I had a lot of time to mull it over. I figure you just go wherever they send you.”  
   
“Okay, well if I’m ever needed to punch a whale, I’ll let you know.”  
   
“See? Transparency,” Tony says, clapping his hands. “Not so hard, is it?”  
   
Steve watches him leave. He straightens the cushions on the couch before he heads for the elevator. Force of habit, Steve thinks. Like he can’t resist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've read this chapter twice because I accidently posted it in 'Sharp Teeth', apologies, I'm an idiot
> 
> as per, your thoughts are much appreciated! I'm actually really interested in hearing how you think Howard comes across -- do you think he loves Tony? Also, how the Tony/Steve dynamic is going.
> 
> Again, if anyone is interested, I'm in a situation that you can read about on my [tumblr](http://writingromanoff.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> I hope it comes across that Steve really does love Tony, and Tony is fond of Steve, but that they’re both just sort of… entrenched in gender roles. Steve’s very paternalistic in his view of Tony, I think, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Except it’s hinted that Tony isn’t who Steve thinks he is. So there’s a lot of misunderstanding, in that neither of them really knows the other, and they’re both pretending. But Steve’s love does come from a genuine place, and genuinely trying to make Tony happy.
> 
> If that make sense?
> 
> Yeah, so I'd love to know what you think, because I'm not sure about this one. 
> 
> I'm kinda obsessed with exploring gender roles this way, like I kinda do it in A More Perfect Union, but this is different, bc Steve and Tony actually love each other.
> 
> I'm in trouble at the moment so if you could have a look at my [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/writingromanoff) for details that would be much appreciated:


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